


(Room for) One More Troubled Soul

by Leela



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Physical and Psychological Trauma, Mystery, Original character death (offscreen), Other: See Story Notes, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam's hand is trembling so much when he tears into the envelope that he cuts his finger on the sharp edge of the flap. That tiny pain, the drop of blood soaking into the paper is forgotten though, when a pair of objects drop into the palm of his hand. </p><p>Tommy's lucky pick. The one he keeps in his pocket and never gives away to fans. The one he barely ever uses except when he feels he needs it.</p><p>It's broken now. Split almost exactly down the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Room for) One More Troubled Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aislinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislinn/gifts).



> A long time ago, I had this story idea that I called "Kidnapping fic". When @aislinntlc bought my services in a charity auction she asked me to write it.
> 
> Many many thanks to my lovely and very patient artist, @glamhalo, who created the banner, the section dividers, and the wonderful fanmix. Please check out her art post and leave her much love and appreciation: <http://glamnation.dreamwidth.org/102838.html>.
> 
> And to my equally patient friends, Minxie, Eeyore9990, and toobusy2write, who read drafts, helped me work myself out of nasty corners, and basically made it possible for me to finish writing this. 
> 
> And, as always, to batdina, who gave me suggestions and feedback and didn't bitch when I disappeared into writing for hours at a time.
> 
> This is not an easy story to read or write. If you think you might be triggered, please see the end notes before reading.

  


Tommy opens his eyes to darkness. Thick and complete, as absolute as if someone had tied black velvet over his eyes. He blinks but nothing changes, so he squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them. When that doesn't help, he goes to rub his eyes only to discover that his arms are almost numb and weighed down by steel bands that dig into his wrists.

His heart speeds up. Bile burns the back of his throat, almost choking him when he tries to breathe. Swallowing hard, he licks his dry lips with a tongue that feels thicker than cotton wool. 

_What the fuck?_ The words bounce around inside his brain, slam against his skull, and drive him to try and get away from whatever the hell this is.

But he can't even fucking sit up. There's something over his chest. His legs are bound tighter than his arms, cuffed at his ankles and just above his knees. He thrashes, desperate, terrified, and doesn't stop until he can smell blood. As soon as he does, the pain from his abraded wrists and ankles slams through him. 

"If this is a fucking joke, Mike... Sean... oh shit... Dave, you assholes..." 

His voice breaks on the last word, because he can't believe his friends would do this to him. This feels as real as fuck, as real as the chemical taste in his mouth and the vague memory of being dragged into a closet, of being half-smothered by a nasty-ass smelling cloth.

"Goddamn it. Motherfuckers. Don't do this." 

No one answers. Tommy's panic crests, overflows, and he tries to free himself again. Something rattles and crashes as he yanks, slamming his hands and feet against hard wall and soft mattress, over and over. 

A scream escapes, incoherent and high-pitched, and he clenches his jaw against the rest. That doesn't stop the tears though, or the odd whimpering noise that comes out of his throat and closed mouth. 

Eventually, tired, breathing hard, eyes and face burning from tears, cuffs slipping on skin that's slick with blood, he subsides. There's nothing but darkness, thick, heavy, smothering, and the sounds of his own breathing, perilously close to sobs.

And then, as he's bracing himself for another shot at getting himself free, for another plea to the friends who really fucking wouldn't do something like this, a spotlight clicks on. It's painful and blinding, and there's a blurry shadow in the center of it.

"Don't worry, pretty kitty," the shadow says in a hoarse whisper. "You're not alone."

The light flicks off again, and Tommy falls into the darkness.

‡ 

The second Adam steps off the stage, before he can even say a word to his band, Dana, his road manager, is up in his face. Most nights, it wouldn't matter, but tonight Adam's still caught up in the performance, in the high of having Tommy hit his knees in the encore, of Tommy sliding up him, all but rubbing against him before backing away. He needs to touch Tommy, to ground himself, to find out if Tommy really was making an offer, a promise of things that could happen between them.

Instead, he's got almost everyone but Tommy wanting to hug him and high five and chatter excitedly about how _on_ they were tonight, and making plans to head out to the Castro and burn up the energy in one of the nightclubs. And then, when he finally manages to extricate himself from them, Dana's handing him a towel and blocking his way. 

"What?" Adam snaps the word more impatiently than he'd intended, but this is getting ridiculous. To distract himself and give himself space to breath, he dabs at his hairline with the towel. Then he looks at Dana, who seems more resigned than anything else, which raises Adam's hackles even higher. "Just tell me."

"Programming guy from Clear Channel apparently made a special trip here tonight. He's heading backstage and wants to talk to you."

"Right now?" Adam steps aside, flattening himself against the wall to let a couple of the crew guys go past him, toward the stage. 

"As soon as you get to your dressing room."

"Can't you delay him for fifteen minutes or so? I need a shower and clothes that aren't soaked through before I talk to a suit." And to center himself again and talk to Tommy. 

"No can do," Dana says as his phone squawks. "Guy's already on his way to your dressing room."

"Fucking entitled—" At a look from Dana, Adam cuts himself off. "Fine, but have someone find Tommy and bring him to me after I'm done."

"Something wrong?"

"Nope." Adam slides the towel around his neck. "Just want to check in with him."

Dana nods, as if that explanation makes complete sense, and Adam wonders, not for the first time, what his crew thinks about everything. They're tightlipped, though, and not just with fans. None of them have said much of anything to Adam or the band about the craziness that happens on tour. But before he can ask, Dana's pushing open the door to Adam's dressing room.

The suit is expensive, custom-made, and sharp as a tack. His hair is dark and slicked back, probably to cover a bald spot. His hand feels soft, without callouses, when Adam shakes it. 

"Tom Carter," he introduces himself. "I'm in programming at Clear Channel." 

"Hi." Adam dredges up a PR smile and forces himself onto his best behavior. Not the easiest thing right after a concert, but he knows how important this is. "Hope you enjoyed the show tonight."

A strange look crosses Carter's face, but he finds a smile to match Adam's. "Absolutely. I can see why you sell out almost everywhere you go."

It's the same old shit Adam always hears from guys like this one. He tunes him out, only listening enough to be able to add in a word of thanks or encouragement here and there, while biting back the urge to tell him to get to the goddamn point already.

Eventually, after what feels like a lifetime or three, but was most likely less than fifteen minutes, Carter says, "Which is why I wanted to talk with you. Demographics are killing our stations, and we believe your new album can help alleviate some of our biggest pain points."

This is so far from what Adam was expecting that he can only blink at Carter and mutter, "Oh?" His heart is racing, his hands are shaking, and he wants to bounce up and down and pump his fist in the air, but he distracts himself by twisting the rings off his fingers and dropping them into his jewelry bag.

"As a result of targeted market research, we're looking to add more—" Carter pauses for a moment, tilting his head as he searches for the right buzzword "—diversity and depth to our lineup. Certain tracks on your current album would be perfect for our needs, if you were willing to release them as singles."

"The next single is dropping in a couple of weeks. We've already chosen—"

"And we'd like you to reconsider that choice."

"Why would we do that?"

"Because you need another number one single, and our stations can make that happen."

A drop of makeup-laced sweat burns its way into Adam's left eye, and he uses the towel to wipe it away without taking his gaze off Carter. "It's not that simple," he says. Although he knows the label will make it so, if the deal's worth it. Then again, nothing comes for free. So he asks, "But saying we agree to your... suggestion, what else would you want?"

Carter's phone vibrates, buzzing loudly in the small room. He glances at the screen and then flicks it off dismissively. "A few promo appearances," he says. "You and that guitar player who gets almost everyone screaming. Perhaps one or two festival appearances with your full band. With appropriate remuneration, of course. And due consideration for your tour schedule."

"Of course." Adam takes a couple of steps back and rests his ass on the edge of the makeup counter. "However, I can't agree to anything without going over the terms with my management and label." _And Tommy_ , he adds silently, even though he knows Tommy would be there, signing on the dotted line without asking a single question, just because Adam asks him.

"I'll have my people call your people." Carter's phone buzzes again. This time he looks at the screen for a few seconds before saying, "I have to take this."

"No problem," Adam responds, because that's way more polite than _Thank Fuck_.

After another handshake, another promise to contact Adam's management, and a digression back into what they can do for Adam and his album, Carter slowly makes his way to the door and out of the dressing room.

Adam mouths _Tommy_ at Dana, who rolls his eyes and follows Carter into the hallway.

Pushing off the counter, Adam turns to face the mirror. He's an absolute mess. His makeup is sweat-streaked. His mascara and eyeliner are smeared around his eyes. His hair is a lost cause. And he's so high on adrenaline, so completely torn between laughing and crying that he feels like he's going to shake apart. 

"Makeup off," he tells himself, "before you end up with acne from hell." 

It's a painstaking process to make sure that he cleanses all of the stage crap off his skin, followed by a not-so-quick shower. He frowns when he gets out, wondering what's taking Dana so long, before pulling on jeans, a t-shirt, socks, and boots.

He's back in front of the mirror, reaching blindly for the brush, when it happens. He puts his hand on a thick piece of paper, yet another creamy white envelope with a purple-to-blue infinity symbol in the lower left corner. His heart thumps a triple beat as he picks it up. It's been a month or two since the last one, long enough that he'd started to think — to hope — that the creep had given up. 

For a moment, Adam considers not opening it, not reading whatever the creep has to say this time, but he can't. This one is different. It feels different. There's something else inside, not just paper. Two somethings with very odd shapes.

Adam's hand is trembling so much when he tears into the envelope that he cuts his finger on the sharp edge of the flap. That tiny pain, the drop of blood soaking into the paper is forgotten though, when a pair of objects drop into the palm of his hand. 

Tommy's lucky pick. The one he keeps in his pocket and never gives away to fans. The one he barely ever uses except when he feels he needs it.

It's broken now. Split almost exactly down the middle. 

Frozen for a moment, his pulse stuttering, his stomach twisting, Adam stares at his hand. Then, as if even the slightest movement hurts, he slowly unfolds the letter and begins to read.

‡ 

_My beloved Adam,_

_Do you like my gift? Or should I say gifts? It's impossible to tell when two things used to be one. Still, a letter hardly seemed like enough this time. Not when I work so hard to watch over you, to take care of you. Someone, after all, has to have your back, especially in moments like this, with people like him._

_I've never trusted him. No matter how much he seemed to have your back, seemed to be loyal, I never doubted that it was all about him, about getting attention for his career, and he's finally proven me right._

_Why claim to be bisexual now, after all this time? Why show you up as a liar? Betraying you and those of your friends who have taken him in, given him a career that he wouldn't otherwise have had? What does it gain anyone but him, that viper in your midst?_

_Never fear, though. I'm protecting you, as I always have and always will. You're safe from him now, just like you are from all the others who didn't appreciate the gifts you bestowed upon them._

_Love always,_  
G

  


  


The room is small, dim, close and, thank fucking fuck, empty when Tommy swims back up out of the darkness. Everything spins around him for a few seconds, and he has to close his eyes and swallow hard. He's not going to fucking vomit up his toenails. Not here, not tied down like this. Choking on his own vomit is not the way he...

Tommy's hand feels light, almost weightless as it rises up from his side. He stares at it, turns it in front of his face. "Awesome," he says, the idea that he isn't chained up sinking in slowly until it drives him up and off the cot, sends him running toward what looks like a door.

Only to be brought up short and fall flat on his fucking face when something bites sharply into his ankle. He's reached the end of a chain that's nowhere near long enough.

"Fuck, fucking fuck fuck _FUCK_." 

He screams and yanks on the links, pulling and pulling. The skin on his palms feels like it's tearing. The clatter of steel against concrete is almost deafening. But the metal doesn't give. Not even a little bit. He's locked in, tied up, trapped in this hole until that fucking psycho decides to kill him.

Tears burning his eyes, Tommy yells for help until his throat feels raw, like it's bleeding as much as his ankle.

"No wonder he doesn't ask you to sing. I'm don't think even a mother could love a voice like that." The voice is muffled, distorted so much that Tommy doesn't stand a chance of recognizing it.

Tommy whips his head around, but there's no one else there. Just a camera bolted to the ceiling in one corner of his cell and a tiny speaker next to it. "Coward," he says. "Come in here and face me."

"So sorry to disappoint, but Adam needs me right now. He's on tour, after all, and he can't do it without me. Not if he's going to make the next concert."

"He wouldn't," Tommy says. "I don't believe you." 

"But you're not sure, are you? People are replaced all the time in his band, his crew, his dancers. No one's permanent. Not even you."

"Or you."

The laugh, even disguised, is so fucking familiar. Tommy's heard it more than once, and that sends a chill through him that has him gagging on bile. It scalds his already raw throat as he tries to swallow it down. 

"Let me go," he says when he can breathe again, even though that's like a fucking useless waste of his energy.

"No."

The silence that comes after that drags out long enough that only the occasional static that has to be the crazy fucker breathing into a mic lets Tommy know that he's not alone. 

When he can't stand it any longer, Tommy asks, "Why me? What the fuck did I ever do to you?" And when he doesn't get an answer, "What are you going to do to me?"

"Oh, Tommy, it's not about me at all. Or really even about you or any of the other boys. It never has been. It's all about Adam and making sure he has what and who he needs."

There's a buzz and a click, and then Tommy is alone again. 

He fights the urge to scream, to pull and rip at the chain, to pound and kick at anything he can reach. Instead he takes a deep breath, and then another, trying to get himself under control. He's watched enough movies and TV shows; he knows how this shit goes. He's either going to be dead by the end of this, or he's going to wish he was. 

Bringing his knees to his chin, Tommy wraps his arms around his legs and hugs them close. He's shaking so hard that his teeth rattle. He's torn between wanting to cry and wanting to hurt someone. Somehow, he decides, he's going to figure out a way to get out of this alive. Because he's got fuck all to lose.

‡ 

"He'll be fine," Adam says aloud. He almost expects the words to echo around the empty room, but they don't. They're swallowed up, vanishing as soon as he says them.

Adam stands, starts pacing, from one side to the other, over and over, making a half-step adjustment at each end because he can't seem to figure out how to match his stride to the length of his dressing room. Each time he reaches the door, he checks his phone. No one has called or texted. Then again, given the state of Twitter, it's clear that no announcement has been made yet, that no one knows something has happened.

To Tommy. 

How could something happen to Tommy? 

The next thought has Adam stopping so suddenly that he almost stumbles. He puts out a hand and catches himself on the wall. 

Tommy doesn't have his lucky pick. 

Even worse, Adam let the cops take it away as evidence. So Tommy will never get it back.

His hands shaking, Adam leans against the wall and considers, once again, defying orders and calling his mom. If they really didn't want him talking to anyone, they should have taken his phone away. It was bad enough that they had him trapped in this damn room, instead of in the big dressing room with his mom, his band, his dancers, his family... glamily, whatever the fuck anyone wants to call them. He wants to be with them instead of trapped in this fucking— 

"Mr. Lambert?"

Adam jumps. Even though he didn't do anything, a vague sense of guilt has him clutching his phone so tightly that the case digs painfully into his palm. Words failing him, he licks his lips and nods at the woman who's just entered the room. A hand reaches in from the hallway to shut the door firmly behind her. Protection or imprisonment? Adam would say there wasn't much difference, but he knows better. 

"I'm Detective Anya Bettencourt."

Even as he takes her card and shakes her hand, Adam can't help examining her. Her black cotton jacket matches her pants, but it doesn't let him see whether she's wearing a gun or not. And, oh my god, he hasn't a clue whether or not he hopes she is. He mostly hates guns, but some sicko has Tommy and... ugh. 

Her long hair is pretty much the color that his would be if he didn't dye it, braided and pinned up in a bun. Her nails are short, manicured but unpolished, and her hand is strong, but calloused in a way that feels strange to Adam after so many musicians. From her gun, he thinks, and then has to shove an image of her shooting the maniac who kidnapped Tommy out of his head.

"Adam Lambert," he says automatically and then flushes. "But you know that already."

"Doesn't hurt to have it confirmed." She gives him a tight smile that doesn't show any teeth. "I'll be handling this case," she hesitates before adding, "unless the feds decide they want to take over."

Odd bits of information picked up from too many TV shows cascade through Adam's memory as he says, "It's a kidnapping. Isn't that an FBI thing?"

"Not usually. Unless there's something special about the case."

It's Tommy, Adam wants to protest, but he bites down on the words and lets her continue.

"Given your—" she pauses and gives him one of those looks "— _status_ , it's possible that the feds may decide to take over. However, I'm far more concerned about the implications in the letter you received from the kidnapper."

Adam's mind races and a sick feeling goes through him as he remembers what the letter said. "There was something about others." 

"Why don't we sit down?" 

The couch is too low and Adam's legs are too long, but he perches on the edge anyway, wondering whether Bettencourt intended to make him awkward and uncomfortable, put him off his game. 

She sits on the arm, which raises her slightly above his level, and pulls a small tablet out of her pocket, opening the cover with an audible click. After a moment's consultation, she says, "I understand you've received other letters from the same person, but that you didn't report any of them."

Her voice is even, almost toneless, but the words hit Adam like an accusation. 

"They weren't—" he starts to say, then forces himself to take a breath because getting defensive won't help anything or anyone. "I sent them to my management, who decided that there wasn't anything unusual about those letters. That they didn't seem to be enough of a threat to be worth reporting."

"Did you feel threatened by them?"

"Not by what they said," Adam admits. "It was more the way they appeared in my dressing room after a concert. That creeped me out."

"And your management didn't think that was worth reporting to the police?"

"We had conversations. Talked about doing it more than once, but no, we finally decided there wasn't actually a threat in them." Adam stares down at his hands and turns the ring around his index finger as he talks. "They aren't really any different from some of the other fan letters, telling me how much I'm loved, what I'm doing wrong, how wonderful I sing. Like I said, the only weird thing was how they showed up. And even with that, I often get fans giving me shit before, during, and after shows. It didn't seem like that big a deal."

Bettencourt's taking notes as he talks, nodding occasionally, asking questions about the letters but there isn't much more he can tell her. He doesn't really remember what any of them said. Not even the last one, which he'd can't believe isn't burned into his brain. 

"Do you have the other letters?"

Adam stares at her. "No. I gave them to Dana, who sent them on to my management."

"All of them?"

There's a strange edge to her voice that makes him think. "Not the first two or three," he finally says. "I think I threw those out." He frowns, trying to remember. "There was one about singing, I think. Something about the writer feeling like I'd been singing directly to him." Adam shrugs. "Like I said, there was nothing unusual about them. Lots of fans seem to think I do that."

"So what changed your mind?"

"They started showing up in my dressing room or on my bus. And then we realized that I was getting one at every concert of this tour."

"You never tried to discover who was leaving them or how?"

"Of course we did." Adam pushes himself up and off the couch, and strides over to the mirror. He can see Bettencourt reflected in the glass, and her professionalism, the way she doesn't seem to fucking care that Tommy could be scared or hurt or... 

Adam slams his hand down on the counter and whirls around. "Of course we fucking tried to figure it out. We're not stupid or new at this shit. We know how crazy some fans and not-fans can get. And we don't have an open door policy on my dressing room." 

Holding up her hand, Bettencourt says, "No offense intended. I had to ask the question, of both you and Mr. Collins."

Taking a deep breath, Adam tries to settle himself and offers, "If you need the other letters, I can get someone to email you copies."

"I'll need the originals, too."

"Not a problem. I'll get Dana on it." 

"Now, if you don't mind sitting down again, I'd like to go through your day."

"There wasn't anything unusual about it." Adam frowns, thinking back through the concert and everything before it.

"For you, maybe." Bettencourt offers him another thin-lipped smile. "I suspect it would be unusual for most of us."

It's not until he gets to the meeting with Carter that Bettencourt does more than prompt him. She raises her head, pinning Adam with a sharp look. "How long was he alone in your dressing room?"

"He... what? No. No way."

"Did he give you his card or some other way to reach him?"

"No, I didn't... you don't think?"

"I don't think anything right now, Mr. Lambert. I'm simply gathering information." Bettencourt closes the cover on her tablet with an audible click and slips it into her pocket as she stands up. There's a pause, the kind that's fraught with something that's never good for Adam, and then she asks, "What is your relationship with Tommy Joe Ratliff?"

"What?"

"What is the exact nature of your relationship with Tommy Joe Ratliff?"

It should be a simple question, but it's really not. Still, Adam tells the surface truth. "He's a very close friend and my guitar player. Has been since," he pauses, tries to remember the exact date but can't, "late 2011. November or December... I don't remember exactly when we signed the contract. He played bass in my band before that."

"And he's the guy you kissed on national TV."

Lips curving upward as he remembers, Adam says, "Yes."

"He recently announced that he's bisexual."

Adam doesn't say anything. Even with Tommy missing, his dad taught him better than to answer questions that cops haven't actually asked. 

"Did that change anything between you?"

"No." The automatic denial is out before Adam can think about how to answer.

Bettencourt hums noncommittally, and Adam has to just about bite his tongue not to give an explanation that means nothing because he hasn't had a chance to talk to Tommy yet.

After a moment, she shrugs and says, "You do understand that you and all of the others associated with the tour will have to remain in the area until you're cleared to leave, yes? In addition, I'll need you to notify me or one of my officers about all media interviews and performances." She walks to the door, pausing with her fingers on the handle and turns back to him. "There'll be an officer on watch at all times, Mr. Lambert. If you get another letter, a phone call, a tweet, a text, any kind of communication from the kidnapper or Mr. Ratliff, call me or talk to the officer. Don't think you can do this yourself, no matter what the movies, TV shows, or the kidnapper might make you think."

"Just find Tommy," Adam says. "I'll do whatever it takes, cancel concerts, have a cop on my tail 24/7. Whatever it takes. And if anyone on my team doesn't understand, fuck 'em." His phone vibrates in his grip, and he stares down at it. His mother, checking in as she does after every show.

"Someone is contacting Mr. Ratliff's family right now," Bettencourt says, understanding in her eyes. "You may want to call them. However, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't mention the letters or where they were found. We're hoping to keep that detail out of the news."

Adam's phone vibrates again, but he ignores it in favor of looking directly into Bettencourt's eyes. "Find Tommy," he says. "If you need reward money or for me to appear at a press conference or whatever, just let me know."

"Thank you," she says and knocks lightly on the door. The same hand pushes the door open and then closes it behind her, leaving Adam alone in the dressing room. He stands there and stares at it for a moment, trying to figure out how to do this. How to tell Dia that he's lost her son, to tell his mom that he's lost Tommy.

"Not forever," he promises himself. And when his phone vibrates again, lighting up with Dia's icon this time, he answers it.

‡ 

_My beloved Adam,_

_Do you remember how beautifully you sang to me that night? How the music flowed through you and straight into me? Oh, what you do to me on nights like that._

_I feel so sorry for your fans, for they will never experience what you give to me, to those of us you truly love. You tease me and caress me with your voice as you did not so long ago with your lips. You command angels to take care of us and guard us from harm. And no one is ever the wiser._

_I told Tommy, by the way. Let him know how much our love has grown over the weeks of your tour._

_Don't worry your gorgeous self. I'm taking care of him, the way I took care of all of them, and you'll be back on the road soon, free to sing our love to the heavens._

_Love always,_  
G

  
  


Tommy stays curled up on the floor, eyes closed, and falls into a sleep that's so deep that he only knows that someone has been in the room because there's a sandwich in a plastic baggie and a bottle of water a few feet away.

The tremors start again as he stares at them. They're proof that the psycho is drugging him somehow, even if he hasn't eaten or drunk anything since he was taken. However long ago that was. Long enough to get hungry and thirsty, at least. So a few hours, maybe?

He shifts position, and the scent of tuna hits his nostrils. His stomach growls, and he licks his dry, chapped lips. He hasn't a clue how he can be hungry, but he is. And he's so fucking thirsty. Cotton mouth from a hangover has nothing on this. He swallows and tries to remember how long someone can live without eating or drinking. Days, he thinks. Long enough that he can turn his back on this and not worry about dying. Yet.

Biting his lip, focusing on that small pain instead of his hunger and thirst, he crawls over to the food and water. Grabbing onto the bottle and baggie with the same hand, he uses his other hand to push himself to his feet. He stands there for a few seconds, swaying dizzily, and then totters over to the weird looking plastic thing that's clearly some kind of camp toilet with a bag instead of plumbing. 

It stinks of chemicals and piss when Tommy flips up the lid. He tosses the sandwich inside, then twists the lid off the bottle and sniffs at the water. Fuck if he knows whether it's drugged or poisoned. Fuck if it matters. 

He tilts the bottle. Water splashes into the toilet.

Tommy's eyes prickle and burn; his tongue seems to swell in his mouth. With a dry hiccupping sob, he stops himself from emptying the bottle completely. He can't do it, can't give up and just wait to die. He brings the bottle to his mouth, swallows down the few inches of tepid, tasteless water that were left, and he waits.

Nothing happens except that he feels less thirsty. He tosses the empty bottle into the corner behind the toilet and shuffles over to slump back down on the cot, holding his head in his hands and waiting for the aching, dizzy feeling to go away.

A few minutes later, just as Tommy's starting to examine his prison, once again trying to figure out how the psycho gets in and out, the speaker comes to life with a click. "Giving up so soon?" 

Tommy flips the camera off with both hands.

"Ah, now there's the hack guitar player that so many of us know and despise."

"Seriously? You're retreading that old hate and expecting it to hurt me? Get a life."

"Oh, I plan on it. In fact, I might even step into your life. Adam needs a new guitar player, after all. Someone who'll appreciate his singing. Someone who is able to play on key, to support his voice with their music without pushing past him into center stage."

A bitter laugh tears its way out of Tommy. "What? You're not suggesting that he should get Brian or Nile in his backup band?"

"Blasphemy," the voice hisses.

"No such thing."

"I beg to differ. There most certainly is. And by the time I'm finished with you, I have no doubt that you'll believe in hell at the very least." 

A loud whine cuts through the last word and Tommy flinches, raising his hands to his ears. It's the sound of someone misconnecting an amp, a noise he's heard too many times not to recognize it. How the fuck is this guy so close to something like that and no one is catching him?

"Adam!" Tommy screams as loud as he can, hoping someone will be able to hear him at the other end. "Ashley! Dana! Brian! Someone! Goddamnit! Help me! Just fucking hear what this asshole's saying!"

When he quietens down, the bastard makes a tutting noise through the speaker. "Oh dear. That really was too loud for my ear drums. You almost made me take out my in-ear." A heavy sigh crackles through the speaker. "You really aren't the brightest of bulbs, are you? And I've taken care of some very dumb blonds for Adam."

Anger fills Tommy, as dark and deep as his fear. "I bet Adam doesn't even know who you are," he says, viciously. "Hasn't a clue what you've done for him. I bet he's too busy losing his shit over me being missing to pay any attention to you."

There's another whine, and another crackling sigh. "You have no idea, do you? And right now I don't have the time or the patience to school you with the truth. Never fear though, I will return to give you the care you deserve just like I did for those other boys who didn't honor the attention that Adam granted to them."

After a few seconds of silence, Tommy rolls onto his side and curls into a tight ball, placing his back to the camera, hoping against hope that the psycho doesn't have another one hidden somewhere. He slides a hand down his leg, feeling for the shackle around his ankle, doing his best to ignore the scabbed abrasions on his skin.

The shackle is solid metal, with a loop of thick steel or iron or something like that holding it closed. It's also looser than he expected. He pushes at it, gently at first, then more and more viciously when it catches on his heel. He bites his lip, holding in the cries, and tries again. The metal cuts through his skin, and he stops.

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, if he doesn't mind hurting himself, doing some permanent damage, he could force it off. He brings his hand up to his chest, hugs himself and tries to ignore the blood on his fingers and foot, the pain thrumming through him. He tells himself he's not that desperate.

"Fucking find me, Adam. Figure out who this asshole is before he kills me," Tommy whispers to the air, willing it to carry his words. "Come on, you son of a bitch. Make one of those miracles happen."

‡ 

With everyone trapped in the hotel, warned not to talk to anyone except each other, and most of their transportation and equipment temporarily in the cops' custody, Adam gets permission to book a room big enough for all of them to hang out in and jam. Bettencourt is far too pleased by this idea for Adam's comfort, but he has Dana do it anyway. It'll keep them all out of trouble, and Adam sure as fuck needs the distraction right now.

Most everyone is there already when he arrives. Food is set out on buffet tables pushed against one wall, and feedback is whining through the room from someone's screw up. Adam glares at the crew members who are huddled around the mini-stage, setting up instruments, amplifiers, and mics, but none of them seem to notice. They're so intently focused on what they're doing that Adam knows they're not really paying attention to anything, because these guys could do this kind of setup in their sleep.

A laugh draws his attention over to the far corner. The dancers have pushed tables out of the way to clear space. Terrance and the two new guys, Carlos and Mike, are watching Johnny do some kind of complicated dance move that would probably have Adam throwing his back out for the next decade. Ashley and Brian are at a nearby table with Gabe and Lou, the new sound guy. Ashley's talking with her hands, her face still as drawn with sadness as it was last night, and the others are listening, although Gabe is also on the phone, his fingers tapping at his bluetooth headset. 

Adam finds himself examining the three new guys, trying to figure out if they could be the kidnapper. After a few seconds, he gives up. Hell, he's not even sure if Mike or Lou are gay. 

The rest of the crew is scattered around the room. Most of them are eating. Some are talking. Others are reading or checking their phones. The security folks have placed themselves near the doors, checking on anyone who wants to get in or out. Adam doesn't want to think that one of these people — someone in his road family — has betrayed him, but what the fuck else is he supposed to think?

Another whine cuts through the room, making Adam wince and drawing Gabe and Lou to their feet.

"You'd think you'd never hooked up an amp in your lives," Gabe calls out, and one of the guys on the stage flips him off.

"Might as well let the experts handle it. Trust me, you don't want to be the guy who fucks up the boss man's sound. You'll never be able to forget his words." Lou's grin, and the way he tugs at the spacer in his ear, have Adam curling his hands into fists. 

They shouldn't be this carefree. They shouldn't. He sighs, flexes his fingers, and tries to tell himself that it doesn't mean anything. That a stupid joke from the newbie sound guy he reamed out a couple of nights ago for fucking up the balance in his monitors, doesn't mean anything. 

Adam's feeling hypersensitive though. So much that even his skin feels scraped and raw, and he can't help but second-guess everyone, everything they do and everything they say. It's such a goddamn mess.

He runs a hand over his hair, careful not to mess with the style too much, because that's the kind of pic someone would post to instagram or twitter. And he doesn't have the patience for that right now. Not when he feels like he's betraying his road family and Tommy.

"You're not." 

Adam turns to his mom. "What am I not doing?"

"Whatever you think you're doing wrong," Leila says, sliding an arm around his waist and giving him a hug. "I know that look, Ad, and I can promise you: whatever you're doing that you don't like? It's not because you want to."

"It's just..." Adam gestures to the room. "I can't, you know." 

And he really can't. He can't stand the idea that one of these people took Tommy, can't stand the thought that—

Leila pinches his side. "Stop that."

"Mom," he protests. "Don't."

"Then stop blaming yourself for something that's not your fault." She moves to stand in front of him and puts a hand on either side of his face, pulling his head down and forcing him to look at her. "They'll find him," she says with the kind of promise in her voice that he always believed as a kid. "And then you'll talk to him about everything you've been telling me for years."

He lets her kiss his cheek and hug him tight, lets her comfort him the way she has for his whole life. Until the door opens and Tommy's sister, Lisa, walks into the room. Everyone shuts up and stops whatever they're doing to look at her. Without makeup, she looks drawn and tired, as if she hasn't slept in months rather than the hours it's been since Tommy's kidnapping. 

Guilt rises up in Adam again. He swallows and pulls away from Leila. Then, moving as quickly as he can, he goes to greet Lisa and give her a hug. "I'm so sorry," he says. "If I—" 

"It's not your fault," Lisa says, interrupting him. "You're not responsible for every crazy person in the world, not even your fans."

"But—"

"Blame whoever did this," Lisa says. "Because I know you'd never want anything bad to happen to him."

Keeping his voice low, Adam murmurs, "How's Dia?"

"Mom fell apart. She almost passed out when she got the phone call." Lisa swipes at her reddened eyes with the heel of her hand. "She wanted to come, but I wouldn't let her." She gives Adam a weak smile. "I had to promise the sun, moon, frequent phone calls, and the chance to look after Bridget to keep her home. I'm not sure how long she'll be willing to stay there, but Shai's doing his best. Not that she usually listens to my husband."

Adam reaches over to the closest table, grabs the box of tissues, and offers it to her. 

"I want to know what's going on," she says, taking a few tissues. "You're going to tell me everything, and then we're going to find out what the cops know so far. I'm not going to sit back and wait for them, because I could end up waiting forever."

"Not here," Adam says. 

She glances around and then returns her attention to him. There's something harder in her expression, more determined. "The cops better catch them first, that's all I have to say."

"And the civilians better stay out of police investigations." Bettencourt is suddenly standing in front of them, and Adam can't believe he missed her coming into the room. She flashes her badge at Lisa. "Anya Bettencourt. We've spoken on the phone." 

"Lisa Ratliff." 

Adam can't help asking, "Do you have news?"

"Not exactly," Bettencourt says, "but I'd like to talk to you both if you have a moment. Perhaps we can go into the room next door?"

As he follows her, Adam can feel someone watching him. The skin on the back of his neck prickles from the intensity, and he can't help wondering if it's the kidnapper. He doesn't bother looking back, though, because there's no way he'd be able to tell who it was; the feeling disappears as soon as the door closes behind him.

‡ 

The conference room next door is a miniature version of the large one that Adam booked for his crew. Same too-bright lighting, same dull geometric carpet, same boring furniture, even the same not very interesting looking food for lunch. They've lined the walls with tables and set up computer stations. A couple of people are watching what looks like a live feed of what his crew are doing; someone else is trolling through fan videos on YouTube. He feels more than a bit sorry for the last guy's brain cells.

The feeling of being stalked returns, and Adam can't stop himself from protesting. "You're watching us? Seriously? Isn't that an invasion of privacy?"

Bettencourt raises an eyebrow. "I thought you understood what we were going to do when I asked you to gather everyone together."

"It's fine," Lisa says. "Whatever it takes to find my brother."

"As long as you're not spying on my hotel room."

"Don't have a warrant for that." Bettencourt gives him one of her thin-lipped smiles, which is not reassuring in the least, and Adam has a sudden urge to ask Dana to have someone check his room for phone taps, microphones, and spy cameras. 

"None of this without a warrant, I hope." Lisa goes over to look at one of the boards, tilting her head as she examines the columns that someone has drawn on it. "So tell me that this means you at least have a lead."

"Come sit down," Bettencourt says, kicking a couple of chairs out from one of the small round tables in the middle. "We need to talk."

Once Lisa sits down, Adam takes the chair across from Bettencourt. He leans back and looks her directly in the eyes. "What's going on?"

One of the men moves from one computer station to the other, peering over the YouTube guy's shoulder. Bettencourt glances at them for a moment before returning her attention to Adam and Lisa.

"Do you have a lead?" Lisa asks. "Tell me."

Bettencourt's face shutters. "I couldn't tell you if we did." 

"But you do have something," Lisa persists.

"Tell me what you need." Adam recognizes Bettencourt's cagy non-answer from far too many red carpet interviews; no way they're getting anything concrete from her right now.

"Your fans take videos."

Adam shakes his head, because that's pretty much the understatement of the century. "Vids, pics, vines, keeks, mp3s. You name it, my fans have done it."

"Tommy's too," Lisa adds. "The places they manage to get, the things they dig up... you wouldn't believe it." 

"Actually, I would, and that's why I want your help to reach out to the," Bettencourt's eyes flick down to her tablet and back up again, "Glamberts. We need to see every video and photograph, no matter how short or blurry, that was taken before, during, and after the concert on the night Mr. Ratliff disappeared."

Lisa reaches out and takes Adam's left hand, holding on as if she's drowning, but she doesn't say anything. Adam squeezes back and uses his other hand to dig his phone out of his pocket. "I'll tweet something now. Is there an email address or twitter account they should use to send links?"

"We have one of each." Bettencourt slides her tablet over.

After unlocking his phone, Adam brings up his Twitter app. It's harder than he thought to fit it all in 140 characters, but he eventually manages. His heart aches and his hand is shaking when he finally sends the tweet.

"Done," he says, at the same time as a female cop announces from behind him, "Got it. Tracking it and all the retweets."

"Thank you." Pulling her tablet back, Bettencourt contemplates it for a moment before saying, "You need to know that we've been talking with the FBI about this case."

"What? Why?" Lisa tightens her grip on Adam's hand. "Has something changed?"

A sick feeling grows inside Adam. He swallows down the lump in his throat. "How many others?"

When the only response is a painful hitch in Lisa's breathing and her nails digging into Adam's palm, he grits out, "Tell me," in a voice that promises more violence than Adam even knew he was capable of dishing out.

"Everything okay?" One of the other cops has come over to stand near Adam.

"It's fine," Bettencourt tells him. 

The cop nods and goes back to his seat. He doesn't take his eyes off Adam, though, and he doesn't return to what he was doing before. 

"We believe there are at least two other victims," Bettencourt finally says. "Both men were either at your concert or a club that you attended in their home city and tweeted about meeting you or having some interaction with you. In each case, you either had two concerts in that location or spent at least one night in a hotel. Their bodies were found shortly after you moved on." She stares down at her tablet. "I need you to look at some pictures. See if you recognize them."

"Oh my god," Adam breathes. His entire body is shaking with painful tremors that start from deep inside him. "Oh my god."

Then he's twisting around, holding on to Lisa, his head against her shoulder. Her hand comes up to stroke his hair, gentle and reassuring in a way that she shouldn't give to him. Not when this is his fault. He starts whispering apologies. To her, to the men who died because of a crazy person's obsession with him. To Tommy who fucking well better survive this or... or... 

Or Adam doesn't even know. He can't imagine a world without Tommy in it.

‡ 

_My darling Adam,_

_You are everything to me. I still feel every look you've ever bestowed upon me. They're buried under my skin, treasures that no one else will ever touch. They're mine, never to be shared._

_Just like the touches we've shared. All those memories that we created together, the kind that last a lifetime. A lifetime of love and desire, of being together and watching over each other._

_I'll never stop, never leave you unprotected, at the mercy of strangers and those who would use you._

_I promise you this, my beloved. And unlike those who have betrayed you through greed or selfishness, I will always keep my word to you._

_Forever yours,_  
G

  
  


Tommy's watched far too many horror movies. He fucking knows this. But it wasn't like he was expecting to live one of them.

And that's what this feels like. That creeping sensation going up his spine. The idea that someone's watching him all the time — even if they're really not. The heavy chains, the food and water that seems to appear out of nowhere. The cold concrete floor, the plastic camp toilet, and the metal cot with its thin as fuck mattress and even thinner blankets. 

Knowledge is power, right? The ones who take the time to figure shit out usually survive longer than those who go screaming off into the sunset.

Dragging his hands through his hair, pulling his bangs down and off to the side, over and over, Tommy tries to think through the fog that seems to be taking over his brain. 

"Think, you stupid fucker," he tells himself. 

His clothes are different. He's no longer wearing the skintight pants, black v-neck t-shirt, and jacket from the concert. For a moment he mourns those pants, bought on a shopping trip with Adam for the Glam Nation Tour, and his lucky pick, the one he used at the audition, half a lifetime ago. The fingers of his right hand twitch, and he rubs them together before he can stop himself.

"Let it go. They're nothing but a useless superstition and fucking lost and gone forever."

Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to keep looking. He's in a plain white undershirt, an oversized grey hoodie with a UCLA logo and matching grey sweatpants. His underwear is his own — the weird-ass camo that he accidentally turned pink in the wash a couple of years ago — and that starts him shaking again because he wasn't wearing them on stage.

"So, he undressed you," Tommy mutters. "Get over it. This isn't the first time you've had creepy people trying to get your clothes off."

Before he can change his mind, he shoves himself up to his feet, wavering only a little as the lack of food makes his head spin and ache, and begins to limp around his small cell. The floor is freezing cold against the soles of his feet. His ankle and heel still hurt where the shackle irritates the skin he tore trying to get it off. The chain scrapes and rattles behind him. 

The chain allows him five and a half steps in one direction and four in the other. No matter how much he stretches, he can't quite touch the section where he's sure the door is, although he can scrape his fingertips along the other walls. They're made of thick, heavy, quilted vinyl that sways every so slightly when he stretches to the limit and pushes at them with his fingertips.

"Soundproofing," he says aloud. His brain trips over a hundred or so bits of trivia picked up over years of playing on stage and off. Not perfect, but someone would have to be damn close to hear him scream. 

The room spins again, and he stumbles back to the cot, sitting down abruptly enough to send a shockwave of pain up his spine. He crosses his legs and curls his hands under his feet, trying to warm them without much success.

"Think, Ratliff. Just fucking think." 

Leaning his head back, he looks up. There's nothing above him but a ceiling that's too high to reach. Not soundproofed, for whatever good that'll do him.

He moves his gaze back down to the cot. The frame is metal, too heavy-duty for him to pull apart. The mattress is thin enough to bend easily when he pulls it up.

His faint hopes plummet even further when he sees that the cot has a steel plate instead of the lovely springs he was hoping for. 

There's a mark in the corner, dark and rusty. He scrapes at it with a fingernail, and it flakes off. His heart skips a beat and then speeds up. Swallowing down the fear that's choking him, Tommy scoots further back and folds the mattress over. 

The corner, under his hands has a matching stain that's the same rusty red-black and that Tommy's brain insists is dried blood.

He only just manages to let go of the mattress and get his head over the side before he's retching up bile on to the floor.

‡ 

After talking with Bettencourt, the last thing Adam wants to do is go back and see everyone else. He heads upstairs and eventually manages to be alone, inside his room. Alone enough to grab his laptop and go looking for the pictures that Bettencourt showed him.

He recognizes the two guys immediately — one blond and one dark with purple streaks, both of them cute as fuck — even if he doesn't have anything more than vague memories of kissing them or hugging them or whatever he was supposed to have done with them that led to their deaths.

With a sigh, he clicks over to the next picture he opened in a tab. There he is, in that club in Seattle, with his arms around a twink with purple-streaked hair, whose name, apparently, was Charlie Hill. Adam closes his eyes and slides down the couch, remembering the feel of a tight ass and lightly muscled arms, and of soft lips under his. They'd not done anything special. Adam hadn't even taken Charlie up on his offer of a blow job in the bathrooms. 

Some time after he'd left, probably when he was safely back in his suite, laughing and joking with Tommy, Terrance, Johnny, Ashley, and the others. Adam's mind had been on Tommy that night, trying to figure out how to approach Tommy, how to find out if he'd be interested in more without fucking over their friendship. And, oh god, was he doing that, thinking about his own happiness, while Charlie was...

Adam's breath hitches, and he drags his imagination away from the dark shadowy images of what happened to Charlie, what could be happening to Tommy.

He traces a finger down Charlie's arm, and tears run down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "So fucking sorry."

‡ 

The knock on the door rouses Adam from a half-sleep. His laptop slides off, almost crashing to the floor before he catches it by the screen. He closes the lid, not wanting to look at the pictures again, at the guy who'd chased him through dream after dream, both of them running from a masked figure, and puts it on the coffee table before head over to see who security is letting through.

Ashley barrels into him as soon as he gets the door open. "Tell me Tommy's going to be okay," she says as the door closes behind her.

"Ash..."

"Fuck that, Adam. Just tell me, okay? Lie to me if you have to." She raises her head and gives him a fierce, tear-and-mascara-streaked glare. "Tell me he won't end up like those other guys."

"He won't." The words scrape out of Adam's throat, rough and sharp-edged. "They'll find him." 

Pulling away, she swipes at her cheeks, smearing what's left of her eye makeup. "If they don't, I'll track the asshole down and kill him myself."

"Now that is truly terrifying." 

When she gives him a weak smile, Adam takes her hand and draws her into the bathroom of his suite. He pushes her down onto the toilet, reaches for his makeup remover, and starts to gently clean her face. 

"They think it's one of us, don't they?" 

Adam tosses the cotton squares in the trash and stands up, unable to look at her.

"It's the only thing that makes sense." Ashley goes over to the mirror and checks out her face. "Fuck, but I need a drink. It's got to be five o'clock somewhere, right?"

Automatically checking his watch, Adam says, "Who cares? It's after lunch time, right?"

They walk back out the living room, and Ashley heads straight for the fridge. She comes back out with a couple of beers. Adam makes a face but takes one of the bottles anyway, because he stocks those PBRs for Tommy. It tastes as bad as he remembers.

"I don't know how he drinks this," Ashley says, then takes another, longer swig from the bottle. 

Adam picks at the label, tearing a strip off and letting it drop to curl on the carpet. "Tommy's got shit taste."

"In some things. Some people." Ashley shrugs. "Boy's learning though, figuring out how to fall for someone who can make him happy as well as love him."

Something in her sly expression reminds Adam of the way Tommy looked at him during that last concert. He feels lost and hopeful, scared, and so fucking angry at the asshole who took Tommy before they could talk, before Adam could find out whether Tommy had a reason for admitting he likes boys and girls.

"They think it's one of us, don't they?"

Adam jumps, surprised out of his thoughts. He starts to say, "Why would you," and then trails off, because he can't lie to her and doesn't have a clue what the party line is supposed to be, if there is one. 

"It's all over the news. About Tommy and the two other guys who died. People were talking about it downstairs, you know, watching the news on their laptops. And the fans on Twitter are going nuts, sending me shit..." Her voice breaks, and she swipes at her cheeks again. "What the fuck are we going to do, Adam, because I can't just sit here and let the cops screw around while Tommy's dying."

"We can't..." 

"Of course we fucking can!" She slams the bottle down on the coffee table so hard that beer jumps up and spills out from the long neck. "If not us, then who? Because I don't see the cops getting it, you know? They don't know this crew like we do."

Another curl of label heads to the floor, and Adam stares at it because that's easier than looking at Ashley. 

"They're supposed to be our friends, Adam. But one of them is a killer."

Adam slowly raises his head to look at her. "If we find anything, we tell the cops."

"Of course." 

He's not sure he completely believes her on that, but he gives her a nod. "All right."

She slides over and gives him a tight hug, places her mouth near his ear and whispers, "Are they listening to us?"

Trying to remember Bettencourt's exact words, Adam realizes that she only said she didn't have a warrant for his room. He whispers back, "Bettencourt said no warrant for mine."

Pulling away, Ashley says, "That was a couple of hours ago though."

"No reason to think anything's changed." 

She smiles at him. "Why don't you order in something bad for us to munch on, and I'll go gather the troops."

Adam should say no but he says, "Go for it," instead, because anything's better than just sitting around doing nothing and waiting for the cops to figure out how his Glamberts work. After the door closes behind Ashley, he flips up the lid on his laptop and clicks into the folder where he stores electronic copies of the letters he's been receiving. 

"I'm going to find you," he promises, as he reaches for the room service menu.

‡ 

_My love,_

_You make me ache. You take my heart and my soul and you strip them bare to the world, to myself. I don't know how to take you, how to hold you, how I can want you with such fierceness that it burns me wide open._

_I'd kneel before you if you let me. Bow my head to you, bend my neck, be everything and nothing to you._

_Will you let me do that again? Keep you safe for all eternity?_

G

  
  


The room smells of puke and piss, and Tommy's sure, of his own sweat and fear. His hair is nasty from sweating during the concert and the cold drip of terror mixed with too much hairspray. He scratches at his scalp with his fingernails and then uses the nails of his other hand to clean the crud out from underneath them. 

For a moment, all he can think is that he doesn't want to be found like this. Filthy and unwashed, wearing clothes that don't fit.

His laugh, when it comes, is barely recognizable, a hoarse rasp edged with hysteria. 

"Fear is for pussies," he tells the room, but it doesn't reply.

God, but he's a fucking useless shit. What the fuck does it matter what he looks like, how badly he smells, when they find him? He'll be dead and long beyond caring.

His breathing sounds loud in his own ears, and he focuses on slowing it down, on getting control of it, of himself. 

Then, when he's sure he won't fall flat on his ass, he stands up. Slowly, oh so very slowly, he begins to move around, flexing his muscles and working his way past the vague dizziness and the hollow feeling in his stomach. He's thirsty and hungry, and there hasn't been any more food or water, or any sign of his kidnapper in maybe a day or a little less if he's remembering what it feels like not to eat for too long. He wants to be ready for the asshole though. 

If he's gonna die, the psycho is going down with him.

‡ 

The living room of Adam's suite fills up quickly. He emails copies of the letters to everyone who brought a laptop or an iPad or other tablet. The dining table is covered with pieces of paper they printed out on Dana's portable printer.

Leila, Rick, Brian, and Terrance are huddled around the couch, sharing laptops, checking out vids and pics of the concert and making copious notes. Lisa and Ashley are at the dining room table, examining print-outs of the letters. Johnny's on the phone, cajoling the friend of a friend, who might know the pap who took the vid of Adam leaving the Seattle nightclub in hopes that they can get the unedited film. 

Adam crunches down on a carrot stick and wishes it was a french fry. He wanders over to the sideboard, and picks up a tortilla chip, using it to scoop up a ridiculous amount of guacamole before cramming it into his mouth. It's good enough to make him feel like eating everything on the table, as if that would somehow help. He manages one more chip before the thought that Tommy might be starving turns his appetite into nausea. Pushing himself away from the food, he heads back to the table.

"So," he says, "Do we have anything useful?"

"You kissed him." Ashley points at a highlighted section of a letter. 

"And you've been close enough to touch him," Lisa adds, putting down her teacup so she can point to another letter. "More than once."

Goosebumps prickle down Adam's arms, and he rubs them. "God, that is so fucked up."

He stares at the list of people on tour with them, everyone who isn't here, in this room, and tries to figure out if he could possibly have known any of them before. Some of them are cute and his type or close enough not to matter under the deceptive lighting of a nightclub. God knows that he would have kissed more than a few of the guys in the right situation. And not remembered it the next morning, never mind however long it's been since he apparently did. Hell, if he was drunk or stoned, he might even have kissed a couple of the women.

Tapping a finger on a crossed out name, he asks, "Why not her?"

"Dyke," Ashley says. "And really really not into guys. Like not even one of those lesbians who want to get all up on your dick."

Lisa strokes a line through another name. "This guy's been married forever and has grandkids. No way you ever kissed him." 

A face rises in Adam's memory, and he shudders. "Oh fuck no. Totally not my type."

Slowly, one by one, hour after hour, they go over and over the same pics and vids, read and re-read the letters, until they're all sprawled around the seating area and there are only fourteen names left on the list. Still too many, Adam knows, but far better than the number they started with. He recopies them onto a new piece of paper and stares at them.

"What now?" 

"We print out the names with pictures and everyone looks at them again," Rick says. 

"And we talk to Bettencourt," Leila says, as she presses a button on her keyboard and the printer starts up. When Ashley, Terrance, and Brian object, she stares each one of them down in turn, using a look that Adam remembers far too well from his childhood — his whole life. After they all, rather sheepishly, mutter agreement, she relaxes. "They're professionals," she says, "And we're not. Nor are we in a movie or a book."

"We have to," Lisa says, urgency clear in her voice. "Please. If it could help to save Tommy."

"But we know them and the..." Ashley trails off when Leila arches an eyebrow at her. 

"Do we? How objective are you?"

"Mom," Adam interjects, drawing her attention to him.

Before he can continue, someone knocks sharply and Bettencourt calls through the door, "Mr. Lambert? It's Detective Bettencourt. Could you let us in, please?"

Adam looks at the door, wishing he could see through it to know who else was on the other side, but there's only one way to find out. He takes a deep breath and gets up. "We're showing them everything," he says. "No matter how stupid it feels or wrong we might be."

When he unlocks and opens the door, Bettencourt is standing on the other side, flanked by two men, one tall and pudgy, the other even taller and all lean muscle. They're wearing unexceptional off-the-rack dark suits, and their hair cuts are so short they might as well be buzz cuts. They follow her into the room, looking around as they enter, judging everyone in the room.

"Special Agent in Charge Mark Foresby and Special Agent Arturo Ingrao," Bettencourt says, as the FBI agents flash their badges. "They've been assigned to this case."

"Why?" The word is out before Adam can bite his tongue.

Foresby moves over to the table, looks over the pages still spread over it. He shifts them around with his hand. "Do you really need me to answer that question?"

"Need?" Lisa comes over to stand next to Adam. "Probably not, but we'd appreciate you doing it anyway." 

"And then we'll show you what we've been working on," Adam adds, as if somehow the feds can be bribed into sharing what they know. 

Ingrao and Foresby exchange a glance and then look over to Bettencourt. Adam hasn't a clue how to interpret their wordless communication, so he waits impatiently for them to decide. Finally, after what feels like forever, Foresby says, "You understand that we can't tell you everything."

"We're not stupid," Lisa says, rolling her eyes. "We just want to help."

"As long as you don't get in our way," Ingrao says.

The threat implicit in his voice makes Adam want to lash out at him, but he doesn't. "That's the last thing we want to do," he says with all the politeness that years of dealing with the media have taught him. "Just know that all of us in this room would do just about anything to get Tommy back. And I trust every single one of them."

The disbelieving frown on Foresby's face and his, "I see," has Adam gritting his teeth not to defend his friends. 

To his surprise, it's Rick who speaks up and there's a rumbled warning in his voice when he does. "I know it's your job to suspect everyone, but these people in here... we're a family," he says. "One that's closer than some blood relatives. I'd do as much for every single one of them as I would for my wife and girls." 

"We'll keep that in mind," Foresby says, dismissively. "That said, all of your alibis for the night in question have been confirmed, which is the only reason we're willing to talk with you."

"Big of you," Brian mutters.

Relieved when Brian doesn't return Foresby's glare by flipping him off, Adam holds up the piece of paper with the names on it, and says, "So... you were going to tell us why you were brought in. After all, the FBI doesn't get involved in every kidnapping or murder."

"While the victims weren't taken across state lines, the kidnappings and killings occurred in three states," Foresby says. "And they're getting a considerable amount of media attention." There's muttering at that, and a "duh" from Ashley, but Foresby doesn't react.

"That's nothing we don't know already or couldn't figure out for ourselves," Adam points out.

"It's the question you asked," Ingrao says, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Now, you can share what you have or we can take you all in for questioning."

Adam's only response to that is a giant _Fuck You_. And this time he has to grit his teeth hard enough for his jaw to crack not to say it out loud. No one else responds either.

"It comes down to trust." Bettencourt moves between Adam and the FBI agents. "We need you to trust us to find Tommy before it's too late and that means sharing your knowledge of the people working this tour,. You have a unique perspective that we don't have time to learn, and no one knows them like you do."

"Fine." Leila goes over to the printer and picks up the pages from the table in front of it. "This is our short list." She hands it to Bettencourt; Foresby and Ingrao move so they can read over her shoulder.

After they've flipped through the pages, Foresby asks, "Why only these fourteen?"

"They're the only ones who match up with what's in the letters," Ashley says, flopping down on the couch.

Lifting an arm so Ashley can tuck herself underneath it, Brian adds, "None of the others would have kissed or touched Adam."

Ingrao gives them a sharp look. "You're assuming the claims in the letters are true."

"You don't think they are?"

Pulling a chair over from the table, Foresby settles down on it. "We haven't discounted anything."

The idea, the thought that someone might do this for a fantasy, for something that was completely untrue, settles dark and heavy inside Adam. He's not stupid, he knows people — fans and haters alike — make shit up about him and other people, especially him and Tommy, all the time. But to kill, to murder for those fantasies... 

Adam drags his attention back to Foresby. There's nothing new in what he's saying but Adam listens anyway, comparing everything against what they worked out earlier in the day. When Foresby is done, Adam lets Leila show the cops what they came up with and goes to get himself some coffee. Bettencourt joins him there, pouring herself a mug and doctoring it with liberal amounts of milk and sugar. 

Finally, when it's clear she's not leaving, Adam asks quietly, "Does this mean you're off the case?"

She takes a sip of her coffee before answering. "Not completely. I'll be working with the FBI on this."

After that, Adam stands there, drinking his coffee, and half-listening to what Leila's saying. The one thing that he's been wondering, the question that he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask, is too close to the surface to be shoved down again. "How long?"

Bettencourt glances at him out of the corner of her eye before returning her attention to the others. "What?" 

Putting down his mug before his shaking hands make him slop coffee all over the place, Adam reaches for the ring on his index finger and starts to twist it. "The other two victims, how long between when they were kidnapped and when they died?"

"You mean, how much longer before he kills Mr. Ratliff?"

Bettencourt's question rings out in a suddenly quiet room, and everyone turns to look at them. Lisa has her hand over her mouth. Her eyes are bright with tears, Rick has his arm around her, and Leila is holding her other hand. Adam wants to go to her, to comfort her too, but he feels pinned in place, unable to move.

"You might as well answer," Foresby says with a wave of his hand, as if he's granting permission. "I'm sure that some of the media are already working it out."

Looking down at her mug, Bettencourt traces the rim. Then she raises her head and meets Adam's eyes. "This is only a theory," she says, "but it appears that the earlier victims were killed right before your tour moved on to the next city. The longest period of time was in Seattle, where you stayed for three days and did two concerts. The victim in that case was taken in the early morning hours after the first concert and kept alive as long as possible."

"So the longer we stay, the better for Tommy?" Brian asks. 

Bettencourt looks over at Foresby, who shakes his head. "I don't think you can count on that."

"Jesus," Brian murmurs. That feeling and the sick look on Brian's face is mirrored by everyone else. 

After a few seconds, Adam stalks over to the window and looks out at the city spread out below, the people and cars moving around as if the world hasn't been upended. "It's almost dinner time, and I know what they say about the first twenty-four hours. Tell me what you need me to do. I'll act as bait, fuck around, kiss whoever you want." He turns and focuses his attention on Foresby. "Let me help you catch this asshole before he kills Tommy."

A shark-like smile spreads over Foresby's face. "We'll let you know," he says.

As he watches them leave, Adam gets the impression that he won't have very long to wait before he hears from them again.

‡ 

Adam picks up the mic and settles down on the stool. His crew, his band, his family, and Tommy's killer — would-be killer — are scattered around the tables in the room, watching him. Brian has brought his small keyboard, the one he uses in hotel rooms and that never sees the stage.

They scat around for a while. Ashley comes to settle in on the edge of the stage, harmonizing as she's never willing to do in concert, and Rick comes in with a hand drum to keep the beat. 

Conscious of his audience, Adam murmurs, "Outlaws in a twelve bar blues progression." 

The first line tears at Adam's heart, dragging out all of his fears, his worries, his anticipation at the thought that he'll finally get to do something, help somehow, instead of sitting around pretending to do something useful. 

Brian follows without hesitation, his keys sliding into place beneath the words, having heard Adam and Tommy playing around with this, and Rick only needs a beat to get it right. Ashley waits until the chorus to join in and sing counterpoint. There's no guitar though, no wailing blues notes to buoy up his voice, and Adam feels that emptiness like a hole inside himself. He doesn't stop though, continuing to sing, just as his band continues to follow him through variations on Underneath and Voodoo. Nothing new, nothing they're playing on this tour, because Adam can't go there right now.

There's little talking in the room as they do this, and Adam makes a point of looking directly at people, especially their main suspects. A few people flinch when he starts into Fever, especially when he has them slow it down, turning it almost into a lament, pouring his promise to Tommy into it. 

In the end though, it's Stay that seems to have the most impact. He doesn't know who it is for sure, but he can feel the intensity of the eyes upon him. And when he ends it, crooning the last, "I want you to stay," he tries to see who it was, but the feeling vanishes before he can identify its source. 

With an attempt at a smile, he hands the mic to Ashley and gestures to Gabe to join them with his guitar. "Come on, everyone," he says. "It's time to jam."

He takes a seat at a nearby table and watches his world click back into something resembling normal for him, for them. It's almost a cacophony at first, as people take up places and try to agree on what to play. But then Brian takes charge, in his usual quiet fashion, and instruments and voices fall into place. Those who can't sing, keep the beat on a table or their legs or by clapping.

In the background, Adam sings along quietly; sometimes simply humming. A hip-hop song that Adam doesn't recognize starts up, with Brian singing lead, and Carlos finally gives up chair dancing and starts doing it for real. His moves are acrobatic, almost pornographic, and clearly aimed right at Adam.

The bitch of it is that, a week ago, Adam might have considered taking him up on that offer. Right now, though, Adam just wants to scream at him to stop, to call the cops and have Carlos arrested because... because he's licking his lips in Adam's direction, giving him that "fuck me against the wall" look. 

_God, it's completely insane_. Adam tugs at his hair and forces himself to look away from Carlos.

"Having fun?"

Adam flinches when Dana's hand lands on his shoulder. His fingers curl, digging into his thigh. "Shouldn't I be?" 

Dana makes a humming noise but doesn't answer the question. Instead, he says, "We're getting calls. People want to know when you're going to start the tour again."

"For fuck's sake, it's barely even been a day."

"And we've already canceled two sold-out shows. Not to mention all the interviews, which quite frankly, I don't understand why you can't do."

"The cops..." Adam started to say, but trailed off when Dana arched an eyebrow in clear disbelief. "C'mon, Dana. What the hell do they think I'm going to do? Just abandon Tommy and pretend that everything's okay?"

"Everyone's concerned about Tommy," Dana says. "You know that. But there's a shitload of money involved here."

"We have insurance, and we're rescheduling. Nobody's going to lose out." Adam's jaw tenses, and he fights not to grind his teeth.

"Insurance doesn't cover losses from things that don't happen." Dana sighs. "Carter's been in contact. His people want a commitment about the next single and have a list of appearances that match your concerts. They're willing to go with Brian on keys or whoever else you want on guitar for the promo gigs. But they want to hear from you now."

"Seriously?" Adam can feel his voice rising, cutting through the music, but doesn't make any attempt to stop it. "Are they for real? It's only been a day."

"This business doesn't shut down because a guitar player goes missing, no matter how popular or loved. You have to understand—" 

Dana puts a hand on Adam's shoulder, and Adam shakes it off.

"No, I don't have to understand a damn thing."

"Yes, you do."

Adam just looks at him, because he knows but... damn it. 

Dana sighs. "Look, you know how much I love Tommy, but people are threatening to sue if we don't fulfill our commitments. After the last album, you can't afford to fuck this up."

"I don't have a guitar player," Adam says, desperately.

Dana's sympathy is almost more painful than his earlier hard-nosed insistence. "They're not that hard to find. We'll hold auditions, or hire someone out of your contacts, someone you trust."

"Don't do this. Not yet." Adam pulls at his hair. "Just a few more days. You know they'll find him."

"No, I don't know that, and neither do you, the label, or anyone else. Let's be realistic, okay? We don't even know if he'll be able to play when he gets back." 

"He will," Adam insists, through the sick, shaken fear deep in his gut, because Tommy has to be. Has. To. Be.

"It's time, Adam," Dana says. "He's your guitar player, not your lover. And he's not the only guitar player you've had backing you up." He rises to his feet, into a silence that feels watchful, oppressive. "Oh, and by the way, you and Lisa are doing a press conference in an hour. At Special Agent Foresby's request."

"Fuck you," Adam grits out under his breath, throwing the words at Dana's back. He closes his eyes and hangs his head, lacing his hands over the back of his neck and stretching. By the time he feels ready to face the room again, everyone else is packing up and leaving. 

Ashley gives him a sad smile from where she's still sitting on the edge of the stage, but Adam can't bring himself to return it. He doesn't know how he's going to go back on stage without Tommy. Not when just jamming with friends makes him feel so off-balance and lost.

‡ 

A couple of hours later, still haunted by the images of Tommy, hurt and bleeding that have followed him all afternoon and evening, Adam is pacing around a small conference room. If there'd been a window, he'd have been looking out, but there isn't.

He pauses behind Lisa, who's just reapplied her lipstick for the third time in the forty-five minutes or so they've been waiting. "You'll be fine," he tells her.

"Says you." She attempts to smile at him but ends up grimacing at her reflection in the mirror and trying to push a stray hair into place. "Some of us spend most of our lives behind the camera for _reasons_."

A familiar gesture from Dana catches Adam's attention, and he reaches to take her hand. "You look great," he says. "Just remember that you don't have to answer a single question if you don't want to."

And with that they're walking out through the door down the hall and into the room set aside for the press conference, flanked by cops and by Adam's security. They walk into a barrage of flashing lights, and Adam can feel Lisa cringing closer to him. With an arm over her shoulders, he guides her to the podium. 

The police spokeswoman, or maybe FBI agent — Adam can't believe he doesn't remember — steps back and makes room for them. As he looks out over the expectant reporters and camera people, Adam wraps his public persona around himself for protection. Lisa slips an arm around Adam's waist.

She's nervous as she introduces herself, but Adam resists the urge to take over for her. This is her show, as they agreed with Foresby. That doesn't seem to mean anything to the reporters, who are shouting out Adam's name and trying to get his attention.

He glances down at Lisa, to get her permission, and then clears his throat. The room quietens. "We're here to give a statement," he says. "To appeal to whoever took Tommy Joe Ratliff, my friend and Lisa's brother, and hope that he or she is willing to listen.

"Your friend?" someone says with a derisive snigger. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Lisa ignores the question and begins to read her prepared statement from the piece of paper. It's not much, nothing special, merely a plea to someone who's unlikely to listen. When she's done, she wipes at the tears on her face with trembling hands. She moves closer to Adam, sliding an arm around his waist and hugging him close. 

There are a few questions after that, about Tommy and his family, about how he disappeared. Lisa answers most of them, and the police spokeswoman a few more. Adam only speaks to one of them, to tell them that he's not sure when his tour will resume, that he's in talks with his management, and they're taking it day by day.

They're just about to step back when a reporter calls out, "Tell me, Adam. Did Tommy Joe come out because of you?"

Adam knew the question was coming; he was prepped for it, told how to answer, but it still hits him like a wash of freezing cold water. He lets the reaction show and hesitates briefly before moving to the mic. Lisa lets go of his waist, but grabs for his hand. 

"Tommy and I have been friends for years, ever since he joined my band. There were," his voice fails, and he clears his throat before trying again, " _are_ no secrets between us."

A woman in the front row narrows her eyes at him and asks, without introducing herself, "Does that mean you're in a relationship with Tommy Joe Ratliff?"

"We're friends," Adam repeats. 

"That's not an answer," she says but doesn't press him.

There's a clamor of voices and then someone in back calls out, "Do you want to be?"

Hearing the question, even knowing that it's going to be asked, knowing it's a plant like so many other questions over the years, takes Adam's breath away. There have been jokes and comments and insinuations and plain outright begging from some fans, but this... this makes it more real than any of those. 

Lisa squeezes his hand, drawing him back to the present.

"I can't answer that," Adam says, as he was instructed, blinking against the prickling in his eyes, swallowing against the feeling that he's somehow betraying Tommy by saying it. Drawing on all of his years of practice, he turns on his heel and walks with Lisa to the door. It's much more difficult than he expected to ignore the questions being shouted in their wake.

He lasts until the elevator doors close behind them. Then, using the wall as an anchor, he half-collapses into Lisa's embrace and lets her comfort him. 

"It's okay," she says, rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder. "We'll get him back." She draws away, her face fierce, and insists, "We will."

Adam can only hope that she's right, because he'd give just about anything to be holding Tommy right now, instead of his sister. He shoves that thought to one side, though, as they walk down the hallway to his suite. She stops at the room next door, the one his people arranged for her, and he gives her one last hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

His security detail pauses outside his suite and waits for him to open the door. For a moment, he thinks that they'll insist on going in first, but they step back and let him enter. 

When he gets inside, when he sees the envelope that's waiting for him, propped up against his laptop, he wishes they hadn't.

‡ 

_Oh my darling,_

_Seeing you in that hotel conference room, perched on a chair, crooning your love to me was the perfect reward. I could spend my life doing nothing but watching over you, protecting you, being surrounded by your great heart, immersed in your perfect love._

_And to know that you're going to stop this foolish dilly-dallying and take up your journey down the road that you were born to travel, singing before thousands of adoring fans. This makes me smile, makes me believe that it's all worthwhile._

_For I will stand, beside you and behind you, watching you scale the heights of fame, gain all the wonders this world of ours has to offer. And I will, of course, take care of the vipers in your nest, and ensure that there is no one to hold you down and prevent you from receiving all the acclaim you deserve._

_Your outlaw of love,_  
G

  
  


The fingers carding through Tommy's hair are strong but gentle. They drag over his scalp, easing the throbbing ache in his head. The hand curves around his skull and cradles it. Eyes closed, releasing a sigh, he pushes up into the touch. 

Fingernails scrape lightly over the fragile skin behind Tommy's ear, and he freezes. His muscles lock into place, and he loses the thread of his dream, the ability to pretend that this is Adam, finding him, taking care of him, loving him. 

He opens his eyes, squints at the looming shadow. As he tries to make out more than just an outline in the dim light, the odd shape of something that has to be a mask, whoever is touching him begins to hum. The song is almost lullaby-like. Not something Tommy recognizes. As the music softens, the fingers begin to drag through Tommy's hair, yanking at the tangles. 

"Stop," Tommy yells, trying to pull away. Sharp edges bite into his chest, his arms, his legs, and he struggles harder until the air fills with the scent of blood.

The fingers in his hair tighten, and his tormentor croons, "Go ahead. Hurt yourself. Decorate that pretty skin with beautiful lines of red and black." 

"You twisted _fuck_." 

"Awwww... you say the sweetest things. I can see why Adam hasn't so much as noticed your absence." 

"Liar."

"Am I now?" 

"Yes, you are," Tommy says with absolute certainty. He knows Adam, knows how deeply Adam cares. Adam even mourns the fuckers who screw him over. "You don't know shit about him."

" _You_ don't know shit." With the last sneered word, a vicious yank rips hair out of Tommy's scalp. The pain draws tears from his eyes and a scream from his throat. He screams again, this time in anger and defiance. No way in fucking hell will he let this asshole win without a fight.

Turning his head, he snaps at the arm that's holding onto his hair. On the second try, he catches flesh between his teeth, and triumphant, he bites down and pulls. His mouth fills with blood, and the guy screeches. And it's a guy, Tommy would bet on it, no matter how high a note he just hit.

The slap claws at his face, digging scratches that burn in the air. 

Acting on instinct, Tommy raises a hand to defend himself. The cuff digs into his wrist, but the chain gives just enough for him to catch a couple of fingers. He hears something crack — his arm, the guy's fingers, maybe? He isn't sure. He does it again anyway.

"You're dead," the guy says, low and nasty, tugging himself free from Tommy's grip and punching Tommy in the face.

Tommy spits blood at him. "No shit, asshole. But I'm fucking taking you down with me."

In reply, Tommy is given a caress. The slow slide of a soft palm over his cheek might have been a loving gesture, just like the press of lips to his forehead, if they hadn't been accompanied by a strangling forearm against his throat.

"As long as I stop you from taking Adam down with you," the guy hisses. 

Then, as Tommy is gulping in a painful breath of air, a door slams and he's left alone again. Fastened down, trapped on a cot, tears running down his face, he squeezes his eyes shut and screams his defiance.

‡ 

The letter, in its evidence bag, is already on its way to the lab, but Adam can't take his eyes off the copy that's lying on the table in Lisa's suite. He runs a trembling hand through his disheveled hair and tries not to listen to the banging from next door as the cops search through his room or the quiet incomprehensible murmur of Lisa's voice as she talks to Dia on the phone.

Picking up his mug of tea, he takes a sip. His custom zen blend isn't as relaxing as a smoke from the weed in his toiletries bag would be — that San Francisco cops don't give a shit about — but it's familiar and comforting. 

The knock on the door is sharp and jolts Adam out of his daze. He's on his feet by the time it opens, asking, "Have you got him?" before Foresby is even in the room.

He doesn't answer, which sends Adam's heart sinking to his toes even as Foresby closes the door behind them and comes over to stand in front of Adam. The coffee table feels like scant protection against the feeling of barely leashed violence that seems to surround him. Adam finds himself glancing from Foresby's belt to his shoulders, looking for the telltale outline of his guns. He hates the things, but at the same time, he can't help but feel reassured that Foresby has one and knows how to use it.

Lisa asks, "What do you want? I don't think you came here for a social visit."

"We have a plan," Foresby replies, with another of his shark-like smiles.

Adam sits down, feeling as if someone just cut his strings. 

"What kind of plan?" Lisa perches on the arm of the couch and rests a hand on Adam's shoulder.

The look on Foresby's face, the thoughtful way he seems to be contemplating Adam, has Adam's hackles rising. Whatever it is, he thinks, he's not going to like it. 

"We want to draw the suspect out and push him off-balance," Foresby says.

 _Suspect_. The word rocks through Adam. "Who?"

A disdainful _as if_ look on his face, Foresby kneels down on the other side of the coffee table and turns the letter around so it's facing him. He taps a finger on the space between the second and third paragraphs. "You haven't guessed?"

"Stop playing games," Lisa snaps. "Neither of us have the time or the patience for this. And just because I'm not rich and famous, don't fool yourself into believing that I can't fuck you up if I have to."

Foresby's smile grows. "Note taken."

A quick knock on the door makes Adam jump, and when Ingrao lets himself in, Adam snarls, "It might as well be Grand fucking Central in here the way people wander in and out." 

Ingrao doesn't respond. He just goes over to Foresby, who rises to his feet gracefully. Their whispered conversation is too low for Adam to make out more than an occasional syllable. They separate with a nod from Foresby to Ingrao.

"We need your cooperation," Foresby says with a grimace. "To be perfectly honest, we'd prefer not to bring civilians into the investigation. However, it's clear that this killer only moves in direct reaction to Mr. Lambert."

Something inside Adam simultaneously relaxes and ratchets the tension up another notch. "Whatever you need."

Foresby nods and glances at his watch. "Two things. First, I want you to talk to your manager, Mr. Collins, and get him to make a general announcement that you'll be packing up and moving on the day after tomorrow."

Lisa's hand tightens on Adam's shoulder as he says, "Fine." 

When it becomes clear that Foresby won't continue until Adam's done what he asked, Adam digs his phone out of his pocket. 

"Hey," he says when Dana answers the phone. "So I was thinking..."

"Do I even want to know?" Dana asks, sounding tired enough that Adam almost wants to apologize.

"It's a good thing, seriously."

"I have a feeling that I'll need to be the judge of that."

It's the kind of conversation that would normally make Adam snicker, but he can't bring himself to do it. "What you said, about moving on and not staying here forever," he says. "I think you're right."

"Adam? You're sure?" There's a thread of something in Dana's voice that Adam can't identify. 

"Yeah," Adam says. "It's just," he takes a deep breath, trying to come up with a good reason, and settles for, "The guy was in my hotel room, you know? I just can't."

"I understand." After a moment, Dana adds, "No matter what I said earlier, I'm not happy that it's worked out this way. I'm worried about Tommy, too."

"I know." Adam glances up at Foresby, who gives him a 'keep going' gesture. "Can you sort it all out? It'll probably be tomorrow before I can get my shit back from the cops, and we'll have to talk to them, get permission to leave. Maybe we can head out the day after?" He thinks for a moment, brings up their schedule in his head. "We've got San Diego coming up in three or four days, right? Can we make that if we leave day after tomorrow? First thing, if you can organize it."

"Restless?" 

Stress drags the truth out of Adam. "Invaded."

"All right. I'll see what I can do, but I don't see a problem. Carter's got a radio station there, so we could double up, if you're agreeable." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "Speaking of... are you up for that promotional thing at Bootsy's North tonight? We never did cancel, and the manager called me to confirm an hour or so ago. It's good promotion, especially with your name in the news these days."

"Any PR is good PR? Even if it involves murder?"

"Something like that."

 _Assholes_ , Adam wants to say, and _fucking blood-suckers_ , but he doesn't. It's Bootsy's, and it's his friends' place. Then again, Markus gets what Tommy means to him. He sighs and says, "Bootsy's will understand if I'm not up for clubbing right now." Then, when Foresby slashes a finger across his own throat, he adds, "I'm gonna go check on Lisa again. Let me know when you've got the travel plans set up."

As soon as he ends the call, Adam looks directly into Foresby's eyes. "What else?" 

"We need you to kiss a guy," Foresby says with a grin. "In public."

Adam can't stop himself from glancing down at the letter. "Won't that just set him off?"

Foresby's grin widens. "That's the idea."

"And Tommy?" Lisa asks. "What about him?"

The look that Foresby and Ingrao exchange doesn't reassure Adam, but Ingrao's response does. 

"If this works as expected, we'll know where Tommy is being held by the end of the night."

Reaching up to hold onto Lisa's hand, his heart tripping a beat, his voice hoarse and raspy, Adam says, "Just tell me what to do."

"Call Mr. Collins back and tell him you'll go to that club. Then get some of your people to go with you," Foresby says. "If we're right, the suspect will join you. And so will one of our undercover agents once you get there."

"I'll need access to my room." Adam plucks at his worn jeans. "I wouldn't be seen dead in these."

"Of course not."

Adam bites down on a _Patronizing asshole_ before he can say it out loud. Instead, he squeezes Lisa's hand, releases it, and gets to his feet. 

"I'm going to stay," Lisa says. She looks hopeful and like she's trying not to throw up. "Call my husband and tell him to bring Mom and Bridget up here. Mom'll probably yell at me again about making her stay behind, but she would have been a mess." She makes a noise that's half-laugh and half-sob.

Bending down to hug her, Adam whispers, "It was the right thing to do." 

"I know." 

"And she'll forgive you." 

"I know that too." 

"I'll call my mom. She'll stay with you, okay? Don't be by yourself."

"I'll be fine," Lisa insists.

"Then I'll call her," Adam says. "And if you need another room, a bigger room, just tell the front desk."

"As if this suite isn't big enough. Idiot." Lisa shoves at him. "Now go and kiss some guy so they can save my brother."

"Okay." Adam forces himself to smile. "I can do that."

She makes a "go away" motion, fluttering her fingers at him, and picks up her phone. "Shoo!"

"I'm going. I'm going," he says, and pivots on one heel. Foresby and Ingrao catch up with him as he's walking out the door.

Adam hesitates as he unlocks the door. _We're coming_ , he thinks, trying to push the words at Tommy. _Just hold on, baby, please._.

‡ 

Adam's suite is covered in fingerprint powder, and pretty much everything has been moved around. "I'm calling housekeeping," he says to Foresby, picking up the hotel phone.

"Fine," Foresby says. 

Housekeeping transfers him to the hotel manager, who promises that someone will be up to clean his room in thirty minutes, apologizes for the lapse in hotel security, and offers to move him to another suite. After a moment's pause, Adam takes him up on the offer and asks them to have the new keys sent up as soon as possible. 

Then, after taking a deep breath, Adam dials Terrance. "Get your dancing shoes on, Terr. We're going out." 

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Terrance is silent for a moment. "What's going on? Really?"

Unable to give the answer that Terrance wants because he totally doesn't want to fuck this up for Tommy, Adam says, "I've got that thing at Bootsy's, remember? We talked about it on the way into town, trying to get Tommy to join us."

"Fuuuuuuck." Terrance extends the vowel, turning it into a prayer. "I hear ya, boo. Want me to put out the word?"

"Yeah. The more, the merrier."

"Okay," Terrance says. "I've got your back. You go and do yourself up right. Make our boy proud."

A rush of 'Oh my god, please' goes through Adam. His breath catches on the inhale, and he makes a sound that's almost like a sob. He clears his throat. "Dana's got the car coming at 11, okay?"

"Okay."

It takes Adam a few seconds to pull himself together afterward. He closes his eyes, one hand curled around his phone and pressed against his chest. He doesn't pray — isn't sure he knows how to anymore — but he comes as close as he has in years. And when he's ready, he straightens up and goes into the bedroom to find the right mix of leather and tight clothing and his pointy-toed Louboutin boots, because he's fucking going to kick some serial killer ass tonight.

‡ 

Terrance comes through as promised, and Adam finds himself with a much larger than usual entourage of band, dancers, and crew joining him for the trip to Bootsy's North. Paps yell his name, as he walks from the car to the door, and nearly blind him with camera flashes. He ignores them, as he's done so many times before.

The cops and the FBI are supposed to be there too, but Adam can't identify any of them for sure. Maybe that one twink on his way in through the door. He's trying way too damn hard, with bronze rags for a shirt and pants so low-waisted they barely covered his junk. Then again, maybe not. Adam's seen guys wear less in the clubs back home.

As soon as they're in the club proper, the music thrums through Adam, curling down his spine and settling at the base. The beat infects him, changing his stride and getting his hips moving as he follows the host — Krish according to his name-tag — to the VIP area. 

"We're so glad you decided to _come_ tonight," Krish says, with a wink, and it's all Adam can do not to wince. Before Adam can reply, Krish lowers his voice and murmurs, "I know you can't say anything, but please know that I'm praying for your boy's safe return."

"He's not—" Adam cuts himself off, because he really doesn't want to get into a discussion about what Tommy is or isn't to him, and offers Krish a half-smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Well, if there's anything you need." Krish starts up the stairs, ass swaying to the music. He's a few inches shorter than Adam, slim, with dark curly hair and light brown skin that seems to gleam in the lights from the dance floor, and Adam can't help but wonder why he's only vaguely attracted to the guy.

"I need a drink." Adam sits down on one of the leather couches close to the railing, looking out over the dance floor. "A martini, heavy on the vodka, would be great."

"Of course," Krish says. "Marthe will be your waitress tonight." He indicates a curvy blonde dressed in a skimpy black dress. "Please don't hesitate to ask her for whatever you want."

With that, Krish sashays off and leaves Adam alone, with his friends, his road family, and a stalking, murdering maniac. The idea that he should try kissing all the boys, see if he remembers their mouths, comes to him, and he brings a hand up to his mouth to stifle an insane giggle. He is clearly losing what's left of his fucking mind.

Ashley settles down next to him, distracting him from his most recent bout of insanity, and says, "I still don't understand—"

"I needed a night out," Adam says, glaring at her, trying to impress on her the need to shut the fuck up. 

But she doesn't. She just keeps on talking. "What I know is that you're usually the one holding everyone together, and giving us reasons to stay safe in the hotel instead of running around outside." She leans into his side and whispers, "What about the killer?"

He just shrugs, because she should know better than to even ask that question. It's not that he can't lie, because he can sometimes, but everyone else is too close for him to take a chance.

From the look on her face, one that vanishes almost as soon as it appears, Ashley finally figures it out. "I need a beer," she says to Marthe. "A local craft beer with kick. Surprise me."

Marthe smiles at her. "We have just the thing for you. You'll have to tell me if you like it."

"And," Ashley says, "I need someone to help me show some of those boys—" she flicks a hand toward the railing "—how to dance."

"Let's do it." Carlos gets up and twirls Ashley. "We gonna make them so jealous of you, they'll be wanting to be you." He dips her one-handed and winks at Adam. "Or our utterly gorgeous and talented leader." 

Laughing, Ashley pushes herself upright. "Suck up."

Carlos puts a finger in his mouth, hollows his cheeks, and pulls it out with a distinct _pop_. "Oh no, I'm most definitely a suck...er." 

Johnny gets up and says, "Oh, honey, you need to do better than that if you want us to believe you're a good sucker."

In the midst of the laughter, Adam manages to dredge up a smile. He looks around as Ashley, Carlos, and Johnny head down to the dance floor. A few other people join them, but most of them stay with Adam. 

There's a lot of coming and going after that. People treat the couches like musical chairs, wandering around the VIP area and up and down the stairs, drinking, talking, laughing, dancing. Adam stays where he first sat down, chatting with whoever's nearby, posing for a few pics with random fans and staff. The whole time, he can't shake the thought that one of these people knows where Tommy is, or the feeling that he's being watched.

After his third martini, Adam's loosening up and feeling like he can stop being careful about every word he says. Until the music changes to the bass thumping remix of Whole Lotta Love that Foresby said would be his signal to hit the dance floor.

"Come on, Terr," he calls out. "They're playing our song."

Terrance tilts his head, clearly curious, but then grins at him and puts his drink down. "C'mon, bitches, time to own that dance floor," he says, gesturing at Johnny, who jumps to his feet with a whoop.

"Hell yeah," Johnny says. "Let's go!"

"My beer needs me." Ashley tilts her bottle at Adam. "And so does my good friend, Lou."

Lou flinches when she nudges his arm. Annoyance flashes over his face, only to be replaced by a lazy grin so fast that Adam wonders if he saw it in the first place. "Dancing's not my scene," Lou says, "but I'm happy to sit here and drink and look after my good friend, Ashley." He awkwardly slings his arm over her shoulders. "And watch you guys kick ass, of course."

"You talk like you're ninety-eight, not twenty-eight." Ashley shakes her head.

"Says the woman who'd rather drink than dance." Johnny links his arm with Adam's and starts toward the stairs. "If you change your mind, we'll be down there, having fun."

Brian, Carlos, and Mike join them, and they make their way down the stairs and through the crowds. Once he's on the dance floor, Adam takes a deep breath and lets the music take him, lets Terrance lead him through moves they've made a thousand times, on as many nights. He's losing himself in the beat, getting caught up in the ebb and flow of hot, sweaty bodies, letting Terrance twirl him, spinning between Brian, Johnny, Mike, and Carlos, when the stranger glides up to him. 

The guy is almost a textbook image of Adam's type. A bit taller than Adam usually likes, but he'd have made an exception on a night when he was looking for a something quick and dirty. The guy's slim and his hair's dyed pink and blond and cut in a geometric shape. His jeans are tight and black, and his even tighter black t-shirt shows off the ink that twines around his arms. He smiles at Adam and cocks his head in clear invitation.

A spark of pain flashes through Adam, and for a second, all he can think is _He's not Tommy_. It painful enough that he stumbles and almost turns the guy down, coming far too close to shaking his head and retreating to the safety of the VIP area. But that's not what he's here to do. So he takes a deep breath and steps forward, into the guy's space, ignoring Carlos's, "What the fuck?"

A bright smile lights up the guy's face, and he reaches out to run a hand down Adam's chest. He moves closer and half-whispers, half-yells something that sounds like, "I'm Eddy," into Adam's ear. 

It's so damn wrong, but Adam can't stop. He reaches out and brings the guy close, slides his hand down the guy's back and settles it on the curve of the guy's ass. "Hello, Eddy," he purrs against the guy's ear, because that's what's expected, what he always does. Then he rolls his hips, lets the music move him, and starts to dance. It's almost a courtship, the kind that usually ends up with Adam's back against a wall and the guy on his knees. Eddy doesn't really have enough hair to grab onto, but he's got a mouth that looks like it was made to wrap around a dick. 

Two songs later, they're grinding against each other. Adam's only half-hard and he's not really sure about Eddy, but that doesn't seem to matter. Eddy rises up on his toes, loops his arms around Adam's neck, and asks, "Yes?"

"Yes," Adam says, feeling as if he's in a dream. He's made these moves so many times before, fitting his free hand to Eddy's throat, using his fingertips to tilt Eddy's chin up. He lowers his head, presses their mouths together, and when Eddy's lips part, Adam licks into him. 

Eddy tastes of a sugary sweet drink and peanuts. He kisses back with enthusiasm, but there's no spark. The kiss feels staged, unreal in a way that kissing Tommy never did.

The music slows down, and their dance turns into something close enough to sex that Adam tightens his grip on Eddy's ass and slides a leg between Eddy's. Adam knows he should kiss him again, that it's expected, but all he can do is rest his forehead against Eddy's, sway to the music, and try not to think about Tommy, about how much he wishes it was Tommy he was holding and kissing. 

He is such a fucked up human being sometimes.

"Shall we take this somewhere more private?" Eddy's speaking too loudly, making sure his voice can be heard over the music.

Giving Eddy his best 'camera' smile, Adam says, "Definitely." Then, shaking with hope that this will fucking work, he takes Eddy's hand and lets Eddy lead him off the dance floor, up to the VIP area, and over to an even more private alcove on the far side of the bar. As Adam leans back against the wall, Eddy goes to his knees, dragging his hand down Adam's front, and the curtain drops to block them from view.

"Damn," Eddy breathes the word, almost too quietly for Adam to hear. Then he rests his forehead against Adam's thigh. "This is fucked up."

"Yeah." Adam sighs and presses his hands against the wall, because he has no fucking idea what to do with them. 

They stay like that for a few seconds before Eddy sits back on his heels and pulls a phone out of his back pocket. He taps on it, and then rises to his feet. Pulling back, he touches Adam's lips. "You were great," he says. "I'm almost sad that we didn't get it on, but I don't think my partner would appreciate it, no matter how gorgeous and talented he thinks you are."

Heat steals into Adam's cheeks. "Tommy..." He shrugs, because there's nothing he could say that would make sense to a stranger. Nothing but the fear in his heart that he's about to lose everything he's never had, and the thought that Tommy was making an offer on stage, one that Adam hasn't been able to forget. 

"Lucky man, that Tommy of yours," Eddy says. "I'm gonna remember this for a long time. But right now I've got to go, and you need to stay here until someone calls you to tell you it's okay to leave."

Before Adam can respond, Eddy steps away and disappears through a door on the opposite side of the alcove to the curtain.

He's gone, heading out to chase down Tommy's kidnapper. Leaving Adam alone, staring at the curtain. He can't bring himself to go back out there, to see who's missing, who took Tommy, who killed those guys.

The trembling starts deep inside him. His legs shake so much that he can't stay on his feet. He slides down the wall, rests his forehead against his knees, and wraps his arms around his legs.

Tears burn a hot, salty trail down his cheeks. His mind is caught in a whirlwind of images of Tommy — tied up, beaten up, hurt, dying, living, murdered, rescued.

"Oh my god," he whispers, rocking from side to side. "Oh my god. I can't. I just... fuck... not without him. Save my Tommy. _Please_."

‡ 

_Oh my darling,_

_I'd do anything for you, for your career, your life, your love._

_Anything._

_Anyone._  
G

  
  


Tommy floats up above the surface into wakefulness and immediately wishes that he hadn't, that he could go right back down into the darkness again. His right arm is throbbing with pain. His face hurts like a son of a bitch. Most of his left leg is asleep. His entire body feels like a giant fucking bruise, and he's pretty damn sure he's smelling too much blood for it to be just from the punch. 

Even worse, he's pissed himself, from the stink and the way the sweatpants are sticking to his skin. Ugh.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and a sharp pain from the binding over his chest has him coughing and his eyes prickling.

"Goddamn it," he wheezes. "Killing the fucker. Taking his ass down."

He coughs again, long, hard, and painful. When he stops and can breathe again, he closes his eyes and tries to figure out how bad it really is. 

Both his legs move, although his right is more loosely bound than his left. He points his right foot and decides he can probably get it out of the cuff if he's willing to do some damage. 

His left arm is trapped between his body and the wall, shackled too tightly to break free. His right, though... 

Squeezing his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the agony that explodes through him, Tommy twists and wrenches and pulls. And his arm is free.

He hiccups a dry sob and holds himself still until he no longer hurts so much that he can't think. Slowly, with frequent pauses to breathe through the jagged shards of pain, he walks his fingers across the metal mesh band over his chest. On the right side, with his arm contorted so that he barely has traction, he curls his fingertips under the latch and tugs.

And screams. His body arches, almost in spasm, and then drops back onto the cot. 

"Kill the fuck out of you," he rasps. "Jesus."

With his upper body free, Tommy levers himself upright in agonizingly slow inches. The room whirls around him when he succeeds, and he breaths in shallow pants. Leaning against the wall, he squints at his left wrist. It's bent awkwardly, held down by the cuff, and should be hurting more than it does. He fumbles at the cuff, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the catch for long moments before he hears a click.

He rests his weight on his left shoulder and brings his left hand up. The wrist is a fucking mess of bloody scrapes, but his fingers look fine. He doesn't check out his right arm, because he seriously doesn't want to know what's wrong with it.

After a moment to make sure he's not going to topple over, Tommy leans over and reaches for his left knee. Slowly, painfully, one shackle at a time, he frees his legs. The blood returns to his left leg, bringing pins and needles and then razor-edged pain with it. He grits his teeth and rides it out, waits for it to ease into something bearable, then he shifts and shimmies until he's sitting on the edge of the cot. 

"Save my goddamned self," he mutters, and pushes himself to his feet. He sways dangerously, almost falling over, then takes one stumbling step. 

He's halfway to where he's pretty sure the door is located when it bangs open and someone barrels through. The guy stops dead and gapes at him. 

"Lou?" Tommy doesn't even recognize his own voice. 

"No!" Lou screams, pulling out a knife and pointing it at him. "You can't!"

"Fuck you," Tommy growls and, figuring he has nothing left to lose, launches himself at Lou.

They go down, slamming against the floor, but Tommy ignores the sudden bursts of pain and grabs for the knife. The edge drags against his hip, but he manages to hold on and stop Lou from stabbing him. They roll, over and over, and Tommy tries to get a knee up between Lou's legs, even as Lou jams his elbow into Tommy's neck.

Lou is mumbling the whole time, about Adam and some guy in a club, about vipers and betrayal, and other shit that makes absolutely no sense. 

"Fuck you," Tommy says, trying to jam Lou's hand, the one holding onto the knife, against the floor. 

"Dead," is Lou's only response as he jolts upward, causing Tommy to lose his balance. 

Hitting the floor knocks the wind out of Tommy. Before he can shake it off, Lou is straddling him with one hand dug painfully into Tommy's hair and the other holding the knife is at Tommy's throat.

"Adam is mine," Lou says. "He picked me. Out of all the people in the audience that night, he. Picked. Me. He kissed me. And he claimed me."

"From GNT? Are you mad? Adam hasn't a fucking clue who you are."

"Lies," Lou hisses. "Adam knows me. He came over and hugged me on my first day working for him, told me I mattered. He sang. To. Me!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Adam does that shit with everyone."

"He's not like that. After he left that reality star, he waited for me. He's _Mine_!" With the last word, he slams the back of Tommy's head against the floor. 

Nearly blind with pain, Tommy tries to buck Lou off, but that only gets him another slam of his head against the floor and some hair torn out of his scalp. 

Then Lou resettles his hold on Tommy's hair, and the knife digs into Tommy's throat.

Fear rips a begging "don't" out of Tommy and drives him to reach up and wrap a hand around Lou's neck. He tightens his grip. The knife cuts into Tommy's skin, even as he presses on Lou's Adam's apple the way he was taught.

"Put it down," someone calls out.

Tommy wonders for a moment if he's hallucinating, but then Lou screams, "I'll kill him!" 

"No, you fucking won't!" Tommy yells. 

He pulls his hand back and punches Lou in the throat. There's a choking noise. Then Lou's weight is yanked off him, and a guy is kneeling next to him, calling out his name. 

"Took you fucking long enough," he says.

"Don't move," the cop says. "Paramedics are on their way."

Sucking in a breath that hurts enough to scare the shit out of him, Tommy does as he's told for once. And when the paramedics push the cop out of the way and start looking after him, he just lets them.

‡ 

"Adam?" Terrance's voice, sounding worried, comes through the curtain. "You been in there a long time, boo. Everything okay?"

"Fine," Adam says into his knees, but it comes out more like a croak than a word.

"Well, that's convincing."

Raising his head, Adam says, "I'm. Fine," gritting out each word, hoping that Terrance gets the hint and goes away.

"And that's even more convincing." Terrance makes a disbelieving noise. The curtain rustles, and Adam drops his head back down onto his knees. "Seriously. Ain't nobody you pick up in a club that good."

Terrance sits down beside him and puts a hand on Adam's back, between his shoulder blades. When Adam doesn't say anything, Terrance pulls him into a hug. Adam almost resists, sure that he doesn't deserve comforting, but then gives in. He slides his arms around Terrance and just holds on as Terrance strokes his back. 

Eventually Adam shifts, pushing himself upright. He swipes at his cheeks and stares down at the black streaks on his fingers.

"Do I need to cut that bitch?" 

Adam shakes his head and manages a weak smile. "Nah. Last thing you need is to be arrested for assaulting a cop."

"They got you..." Terrance's intake of breath is audible. "Shit. You could've been hurt."

"Wouldn't you? For Tommy?"

"Not like you."

"I fucking hope not." There's a thread of jealousy and something vicious in Adam's voice that he doesn't even want to think about. He digs his phone out of his pocket and taps into the mirror app. He's not as much of a fucking mess as he expects — one of the benefits of not caking on the makeup. Licking his fingertips, he closes his eyes and begins to clean off the smeared mascara and eyeliner. 

"Here," Terrance says. "Let me." 

The damp cotton of his handkerchief drags on Adam's skin a little more roughly than Adam's fingers, but Adam doesn't protest. He lets Terrance clean him up, not moving until Terrance says, "All done." 

When Adam checks the mirror in his phone, all of his makeup is gone. The dark circles under his eyes are visible. He looks as tired, as old as he feels. "Better hope there are no paps out there," he jokes. "This will be all over the tabloids."

"Nothing wrong with looking like shit when there's someone to worry about. Even the paps would agree on that," Terrance says. "Now come on. It's time to get out of here."

Not having the energy to argue or any reason or desire to stay, Adam lets Terrance pull him to his feet, take his hand, and lead him out of the alcove. The club seems bright in contrast, too loud, too happy, too carefree for what Adam knows is going on somewhere in the city. 

As soon as they get to the couches, the crew gets up and forms a protective circle around him. Adam can't help silently counting them off, naming them. Five people are missing at first, but then three of them join the party as they reach the bottom of the stairs. That leaves two, and Adam's sure as he can be that Dana wouldn't hurt Tommy. 

_Motherfucking Lou_.

Images of Lou getting his, of Eddy catching him, handcuffing him, shooting him, of Tommy kicking him in the nuts cascade through Adam's mind. He walks without paying attention, putting one foot in front of the other, automatically ducking his head when they exit the club to bright flashes and people calling his name. Normally he would talk to the paps, schmooze a little, run that fine line between encouraging them and merely putting up with them. He can't though. He just can't. Not when Tommy...

"Get in the car," Terrance tells him, giving him a small push. "Don't give them what they want."

Adam does as he's told, sliding all the way over to the window. Terrance joins him in the middle seat, and Johnny and Ashley pile into the back seat. Dana gets into the front, next to the driver, and Adam sighs with relief.

"Seatbelts," Dana says. "And I want someone to tell me what the hell just happened in there." When no one responds, Dana turns in his seat and asks, "Adam?"

"You need to watch more TV," Adam says. At Dana's confused look, he adds, "If we're really fucking lucky, the FBI are out there somewhere, catching a killer and rescuing Tommy." His hands tremble as he says it out loud, and he hugs himself, tucking them under his biceps. 

"Adam," Dana says, warning clear in his voice. "Why would you... You could have been..." But then he stops himself and runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck. You give me more gray hairs than my kids."

The car pulls away from the curb, and Adam stares down at his phone. He curls his hand around his phone, bringing it up to his chest, pressing it over his heart, and wills it to ring, for someone to call and tell him that Tommy's safe, but it stays dark and silent all the way back to the hotel.

‡ 

Back in the hotel, Adam goes up to his new suite. It's at the other end of the top floor from his old one. The lock flashes red, mocking him, after his first and second attempts to open the door.

"Try it the other way," Dana says, taking the keycard out of Adam's hand, turning it around and putting it into the door.

As the lock turns green, Adam mutters, "Show off."

The two security guards take up position on either side of the door. Adam pushes his way inside followed by everyone except Ashley, who headed for Lisa's room. The layout is a mirror image of the one Adam had before, and the decor is primarily shades of black and silvery white instead of beige and gold. 

A letter is propped up against the vase on the coffee table. Everyone stops talking and just stares at it.

"No," Adam says, queasy with fear and denial. "Just fucking no. Not now."

He reaches for the letter, planning to rip it to shreds and fuck the goddamn cops and their evidence, when he realizes that the envelope has the hotel logo in the corner. "Assholes. You don't fucking do that."

"I've got it." Dana plucks the letter out of Adam's hands. The sound of the paper tearing is loud in the silence. After scanning it for a moment, Dana says as he reads, "The manager apologizes for the failure of their security and says that he's moved all your things to this suite, is having some of your clothes cleaned, and that your stay is on them. Oh, and they hope that you'll return here next time you're in San Francisco." 

Dropping down onto the couch with a sigh, Adam curls up in a corner and rests his head against the back. He's still staring down at his phone when Ashley brings Lisa, Leila, and Rick into the room. 

"Tell me," Lisa says, sitting down next to him and laying a hand over his wrist.

"Did it work?" Leila perches on the arm behind Adam. He leans back against her, drawing comfort from her perfume and her touch.

Lifting his head, Adam scans the room. Rick it at the other end of his couch, and Terrance and Johnny are on the other one. Ashley is sitting sideways in a chair, with her legs dangling over the arm. Brian is on the floor, leaning back against her chair. Dana has claimed the second chair, and Carlos and Mike are on the floor.

"It worked," Adam says. "Or at least I think it did." He glances down at his phone again, but it remains stubbornly dark. "The guy I danced with, Eddy? He was a cop." Pausing, he touches his fingertips to the back of Lisa's hand. Betrayal thick and caustic on his tongue, he says, "It was Lou."

The cacophony of curses and protests is silenced by the almost simultaneous ringing of Adam's and Lisa's phones. The number on both is Unknown. They stare at each other. 

Leila's hand tightens on Adam's shoulder. "You need to answer that."

Barely able to hear anything over the pounding of his heart, Adam accepts the call and raises the phone to his ear. He shuts out Lisa's breathless conversation and says, "Hello?"

"Adam? It's Anya Bettencourt."

The air catches painfully in Adam's lungs, and his voice breaks as he says, "Tommy?"

"We've got him."

"Oh God." 

"Look, I can't tell you a lot over the phone. Just get to San Francisco General as soon as you can."

"He's alive," Adam breathes as he hangs up. "We've gotta go. Now." 

"Alive," Lisa repeats. She's crying, and Adam realizes, so is he. They hug each other, so tightly that it hurts.

"I'll get the car service," Dana says. "For everyone, I assume." 

There's a chorus of, "Hell yeah," and a murmuring of prayers that Adam appreciates even if he can't join in. And then they're rushing out of the room, Adam with Leila on one side and Lisa on the other, doing their best not to let go, even as they navigate through doors and the elevator.

‡ 

Getting to the hospital is a blur. They're escorted into a private room, where they're watched over by a uniformed cop. Adam stays there, cursing all the people who aren't coming in to tell them what's going on, alternating between pacing, sitting impatiently, and checking his phone for news, updates, anything that twitter or the news can tell him and sending all of his calls to voicemail.

He can't get the words that greeted them out of his head — _knife wound to the throat_ — or the image of Tommy bleeding to death out of his mind.

While Adam worries and Lisa cries and talks to her husband and mother, Leila takes over. She sends people for coffee and snacks. She calls Neil and Adam's dad, and organizes others into contacting close friends, passing on the good news and telling them to call and email others.

At some point, Adam's phone flashes the low battery warning and there's a scramble to find a charger so he can plug it in. 

And, of course, at the same moment, before they locate one, a nurse walks into the room. She says, "Mr. Ratliff's family?"

"I'm Lisa Andrade, his sister." Lisa reaches for Adam's hand and pulls him up with her. "And Adam's his boyfriend, as much family as I am."

Shocked, Adam's momentarily speechless as they walk, arms around each other, to meet the nurse in the center of the room. Before anyone can say anything, Lisa asks, "How's Tommy?"

"Emily Thuong," she says, introducing herself. "And Tommy is going to be just fine."

Adam lets out the breath he'd been holding and hugs Lisa, who is crying. "Thank you," they both say, almost at the same time.

"He's dehydrated and has lost enough blood that we want to keep him overnight for observation," Emily says. "However, his neck wound wasn't very deep, his airway wasn't compromised, and his other injuries are superficial." 

"Oh my god, thank you!" Lisa smiles through her tears. 

Emily smiles back. "You're very welcome. We're still waiting for a room, but you can visit with him in ER if you want."

"Yes," Lisa says. "Both of us." 

"Of course." Emily's expression becomes more serious. "I know you've got other things on your mind right now, but we need someone to provide insurance information and fill out forms."

"This guy can do all that." Adam waves Dana over. "And if Tommy's insurance doesn't cover a private room, I'll pay the difference."

"It won't," Dana says. "Don't worry. I'll get it covered and make sure you're charged for it."

After thanking him, Adam turns to Emily. "Can we go see Tommy now?"

"Give me a couple of minutes to make sure that they're finished with him, and then absolutely."

There's a whirlwind of hugging when Emily leaves. Adam can hear people praying, thanking God for Tommy's recovery. It's Leila's hug and kiss, and the way she draws his head down so they can touch foreheads that finally helps Adam find his words again. 

"Say it with me, Ad," she says. "A _Shehecheyanu_. You know how it goes."

And he does, closing his eyes, and reciting the words he learned so many years ago. He's not sure it means anything, that there's anyone to listen, but it gives voice to the joy and relief inside him.

‡ 

SFNews.com  
 **Lambert's Guitarist Found Safe**  
Harry P. Colliver

Tommy Joe Ratliff, Adam Lambert's guitarist, who was kidnapped after Lambert's concert at the Warfield was found by a combined FBI and San Francisco Police Department task force in the early hours of this morning. Ratliff is currently being treated for minor injuries and is expected to be released this morning.

Police arrested Luitger Beck, 28, of Providence, RI, a sound technician for Lambert, on suspicion of murder and kidnapping. According to police sources, Beck, who signed his letters to Lambert with the initial G, after his childhood nickname, Ger, is also expected to be charged with the kidnapping and murder of Charles Hill, 30, of Seattle, and Gabriel Proulx, 27, of Portland. 

The San Francisco Police Department will hold a news conference at 10:30am to discuss details of the investigation and subsequent arrest.

‡ 

The noises on the other side of the curtains around Tommy's bed make him feel like crying. There are babies crying, people yelling and talking, announcements on the intercom, a woman screaming. And every single sound is cause for celebration — proof that he's not alone, that he's free.

Leaning back against the stacked up pillows on the cranked up head of the hospital bed, Tommy closes his eyes and just listens and tries to figure out how bad off he is. He's been x-rayed, poked, and prodded within an inch of his life, including some places that he'd rather not think about even though it's good to know for sure that the asshole didn't rape him while he was out. He's got an IV needle in his left hand, stitches in his neck, and bandages around his neck, wrists, ankles, chest, and who the fuck knows where else because he lost track.

But nothing hurts that badly, and he's not that freaked out. It's got to be the drugs that they're giving him; they're the absolute shit. Plus the fact that his right arm isn't broken. That cracking noise he heard when he attacked Lou was apparently his thumb dislocating and that's already back into place and bruised to hell and back along with a whole lot of other places on his body. But none of the damage is bad enough to stop him from playing guitar. And that's a fucking gift, thank you very much.

The curtain rattles and he jerks upright again, sucking in a breath when the stitches on his neck feel like they're about to tear out of his skin. His nurse, whatever the hell her name is — Emily maybe? Or Emma? — asks, "Are you up for visitors?"

 _No_ is on the tip of his tongue. He almost says it, but then he smells a familiar cologne, hears a familiar click of boot heels against linoleum, and knows that he can't send Adam away. "Sure," he croaks, which sets his throat to aching again.

"Tommy!" Lisa barrels through the curtain, not stopping until she gets to his bedside. She hesitates there, looking around as if she doesn't know where to sit. The cubicle isn't really big enough for a chair. Adam's behind her, big and gorgeous, dressed as if he's just come from a club, and looking as if he's taken on the world and isn't sure if he won or lost.

"Sit on the bed," Tommy rasps, answering Lisa's unspoken question without taking his eyes off Adam. 

She wraps him in her way too gentle and careful embrace. Her shoulders shake, and she cries. She mumbles a constant mantra of, "You're here. You're okay. I was so worried. I'm so glad you're okay," into his neck that makes him feel helpless. 

As Tommy strokes Lisa's back, Adam takes a careful step forward, one after another, each one hesitant and slow, until he's standing at the end of the bed. He reaches out to touch Tommy's foot. His fingers are warm and strong, and Tommy can't help but press his toes into Adam's palm. 

"I'm okay," he says to Lisa, bussing a kiss into her hair. "Seriously. A little battered and bruised, but I'm going to be fine." 

Adam's touch becomes a light massage that sends goosebumps prickling over Tommy's skin, especially when Adam's knuckles press into a tight spot on the sole of Tommy's foot.

"Mom will be here tonight," Lisa says. "Bridget and Shai too." She pulls back and rubs at her nose. Her eyes are red-rimmed and a bit sore-looking. 

"Don't bring them here, okay? I'll be out tomorrow, and you know how Mom gets around hospitals."

"I'll try. No promises though." She looks as if she wants to say something more, to ask him for details or something, but her phone rings and lights up with a picture of their mom. "Speak of the devil," she says.

"You should get that. Let her know I'm okay." 

"She'll want to talk to you..."

Tommy shakes his head then winces when the movement pulls on his stitches. "Tell her I'm not supposed to talk. Need to let my throat heal a bit."

The ringtone goes off again as Lisa considers him before nodding her agreement. "Only because I'm sure that's actually true." She slips off the bed as she brings the phone to her ear. "Hi, Mom. Give me a sec. I need to get to somewhere I can talk on the phone." She wanders out of the cubicle, rattling the curtain on her way past. 

After a few seconds, when he's sure that she's out of range, Tommy brings his foot closer, trying to give Adam a _come here_ hint. When Adam doesn't move, Tommy says, "Get over here." His voice sounds even hoarser, and his throat hurts enough to make him swallow and grimace.

Adam does as Tommy asks, moving around the bed to sit on the edge and draw Tommy into a hug that's just tight enough to make him feel alive, and when he relaxes into it, safe. 

"I'm sorry," Adam finally says. "So fucking sorry I blew off those letters." 

"Don't." Tommy hits Adam's shoulder with the heel of his hand. "Not your fault."

A shudder goes through Adam's body. He pulls back and runs his thumb over Tommy's cheekbone, tracing the edge of the bruise so gently that Tommy can barely feel it. He moves on from there, with careful caresses to each bruise and bandage, every place where Tommy was visibly hurt. The expression on Adam's face is so serious, so close to falling over the edge into tears, that Tommy just lets him without saying a word.

When he's done, Adam brings his hand back up to Tommy's face and caresses Tommy's lower lip with his forefinger. The place where it's split stings a little, and Tommy automatically goes to lick the broken skin. The tip of his tongue touches Adam's finger.

With an audible intake of breath, Adam stills. He whispers, "Tommy?"

Nervous, unsure, but needing reassurance that Lou was wrong, that Adam does want him, Tommy kisses Adam's fingertip. Then he moves back. "I was going to tell you," he says. "After the show."

"I tried to find you. I wasn't sure, but I hoped that's what you were doing." Adam reaches out, then curls his fingers and drops his hand down onto the bed. "I don't even know where to touch you." 

"You did fine before."

"Before I wasn't trying to hug and kiss you." This time Adam is even more gentle. He cups Tommy's jaw, making him feel like something precious and worth protecting, and he brushes his lips over Tommy's. "Later," he says. "When you're out of here."

Taking Adam's hand and lacing their fingers together, Tommy says, "Just don't get lost this time."

"No way," Adam promises. "I'm staying here as long as you are."

Tommy isn't sure he really believes him, but the IV monitor beeps and he feels the rush of the next dose of drugs hitting his system. He lies back, resting against his pillows. His eyes flutter closed against his will, and he forces them open again. 

"Please," he says, and smiles when Adam responds by kissing his bruised knuckles.

‡ 

"I'm not going back out on the road without Tommy," Adam says. "It's only for a week, three shows, and then he's cleared to play. Why can't we reschedule?"

"We've been through this already." Dana sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck. "It's not as simple as you seem to think it is, and it's damned expensive."

"And it's not that easy to find a guitar player who can just step in and learn a concert's worth of songs in two days."

"Immerman can do it," Tommy says. 

Startled, Adam looks over to where Tommy has come out of the bedroom and is leaning against the doorjamb. 

"He already knows a bunch of the songs from Glam Nation and jamming with me," Tommy continues. "As long as you're willing to change a couple of things in the set list and don't give a fuck if he uses sheet music." 

Adam reaches up and tugs on one of his spacers. "I don't want..."

"I know." Tommy gives them a sad smile that makes Adam want to hug him. "Me either, but it's the right thing to do."

"Your fans'll bitch."

"My fans will be glad that I'm not fucking myself up by playing too much too soon. They're protective bitches." Tommy shrugs. "Most of them anyway."

"See," Dana says. "Even Tommy agrees. And he has a replacement for you."

It's petulant and selfish, but Adam can't help saying, "But I don't want a replacement."

"It's three fucking shows, Adam." Dana blows out a breath. "This is not the time to get your diva on."

"Oh, fuck you." 

Turning his back on Dana, Adam walks over to Tommy and examines him. The hems of his black and green plaid sleep pants are dragging on the ground, and he's replaced the pajama top with a black fleece sweatshirt. The dark circles under his eyes look as much like bruises as the green and black marks on his face. Even with that, he looks better than he did a few hours earlier when they brought him back from the hospital.

"You're supposed to be in bed," Adam says, because he can't help himself.

"Fuck that noise. I need coffee, and something to eat that doesn't taste like cardboard. Then we're going to talk about why you're being such an idiot." 

"I'm not..."

"Yes, you are." Tommy limps past Adam and into the main room of the suite. The careful way he holds himself makes Adam want to hurt someone, preferably a former employee who's currently being held in the psych ward at San Francisco General.

Instead he goes over to get the room service menu and hands it to Tommy. "Whatever you want."

"A latte," Tommy says, and the look of ecstasy on his face is almost obscene. "And a grilled cheese. Oh, and french fries." He turns and raises an eyebrow at Adam, looking stern. "And don't you even think about ordering me any healthy shit. I'll go back to eating lettuce in a couple of days. Right now, I want comfort food."

"Cross my heart," Adam says.

Tommy grins. "Yeah, and I know how much that means to you." He makes his slow and painful-looking way over to the couch and lowers himself onto it. 

With an effort that he knows Tommy can identify, Adam forces himself to go over to the phone and order food rather than help Tommy. He gets a latte for himself as well, adding a pot of coffee when Dana asks and then something that's seriously decadent and chocolaty because he fucking needs it. When he's done, he goes to sit next to Tommy, and Tommy shifts over until he's curled into Adam's side. 

Suddenly Adam is overwhelmed by the fact that Tommy is there, that he's warm and solid and back in Adam's arms. He runs his hand down Tommy's arm and hopes that he doesn't look as close to tears as he feels. 

"Doctor's note said that I needed to take it easy for a week or so before I tried to play full out," Tommy says. "When I asked, he said that a couple of songs would be fine, as long as I wear a brace with a thumb guard on my right wrist. And no headbanging, because that could fuck up the stitches in my neck."

Dana leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "So you could play San Diego? Like three days from now?"

"If I'm careful and don't try and power through the whole thing, I could probably manage two or three songs spread over the night."

Knowing he's being over-protective and a bit silly, and that it could completely backfire on him, Adam can't stop himself from asking, "You won't hurt yourself?"

The point of Tommy's elbow is sharp, and when he jams it back in Adam's gut, it drags an "Oof" of pain and protest out of him.

"You know what," Dana says, pushing himself to his feet, "I'm going to call the office and see what we need to do to get things moving again. Why don't we meet in a couple of hours?" He checks his watch. "Around five, okay?" And with that, Dana's letting himself out the door.

"Smart man," Tommy says. 

"Asshole," Adam responds, because Tommy really, really is. He rubs his stomach. "That fucking hurt."

"And you hurt me, thinking that I'm stupid enough to fuck my hand up and risk my career."

Adam stares down at Tommy's right hand, and the way he's picking at the inseam of Adam's jeans. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Yeah," Tommy's voice softens with understanding, "I know."

Realizing that he needs to talk to Tommy, to tell him what he's thinking and feeling, Adam slides off the couch to kneel in front of him. He takes a deep breath before he says, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to..." 

Careful not to press too hard and hurt Tommy's split lower lip, Adam places a finger over Tommy's mouth. "Just let me talk, okay?"

Tommy nods.

Adam takes Tommy's left hand and holds it, using the touch to give him courage. "When I came off that stage, the only thing on my mind was getting to talk to you, finding out whether you'd been playing around or if you'd been making an offer that there was no way in hell I wanted to refuse."

"I was..." Tommy started to say, only to close his mouth with a snap when Adam shook his head.

"We probably need to talk about what happened," Adam says. "To each other and to a professional. But I don't want to do that now. Not until you're ready. Just..." He sighs and closes his eyes, not wanting to see Tommy's expression. "I need to take care of you. I need to know that you're okay and that you're still here. Maybe that's love? I think so, but I'm not sure. But I never want to feel like I did while you were missing ever again."

"Idiot." There's fondness in Tommy's voice, and when he puts a finger under Adam's chin and tilts it up, Adam opens his eyes. Tommy's smiling at him, wide enough that his lip is cracking open again. "No fucking way I would have gone public without a damn good reason. And you're the best in my world."

Before Adam can say anything else, Tommy is leaning forward and kissing him. His lips are chapped and cracked, and they taste a little like blood, but Adam doesn't care. He licks into Tommy's mouth and shivers from the rush of Tommy opening up to him.

Adam rises to his knees, needing to get closer, as Tommy slides to the edge of the couch. He gentles the kiss, not wanting to hurt Tommy, and rests his forehead against Tommy's. "Come with me on tour, even if you're not playing," he says, not caring that he's begging. "I can't stand the idea of not knowing where you are. Not right now, anyway."

"Yeah," Tommy says. "I can do that. As long as I can get someplace to have these fucking stitches removed in five days." He lifts his hand to his neck, fingers curled as if to scratch, then tightens his hand into a fist and drops it again before Adam can protest. "They're already starting to itch."

"I'll get Dana to organize it. And I'll help with cleaning and changing the dressing if that's okay?"

The look on Tommy's face makes Adam want to say _trust me_ , but he doesn't. He doesn't even respond with _thank you_ when Tommy says, "If I need help."

Then, after a moment, Tommy asks, "So this is a thing, right? You and me?"

Adam's heart does a triple beat, and emotion almost chokes him. "It's a thing," he says, and he gives Tommy another quick, light kiss.

They're smiling at each other, and Adam's finally feeling like he doesn't mind singing on stage again, even with another guitarist, when there's a knock on the door and Tommy's phone rings. 

"Room service," a man calls through the door.

"It's my mom," Tommy says.

Adam rises to his feet. "Tell her to come over, bring Lisa and the others. We'll order more food and turn this into a celebration."

"I need more pain meds if we're going to do that."

"No problem," Adam says, blowing him a kiss and feeling like a happy idiot when Tommy catches it and brings his hand to rest over his chest. He's signing the room service check, watching Tommy talk to Dia, when he realizes that maybe he was wrong about it not being love.

Not that it matters, he thinks, as he carries the food and drinks to the coffee table. Not when he's got Tommy.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> After he is kidnapped, Tommy is held prisoner in a small space, tied up, given very little food and drink, psychologically tortured, and physically injured in an altercation that includes hair-pulling, his head banged against the floor, and has his throat cut (not deeply or fatally).
> 
> At the same time, Adam is stalked by the kidnapper/serial killer and letters left for him are included in the story.


End file.
